A Piece Of Glass
by Breech Loader
Summary: The Joker breaks out of Arkham for a little 'vacation' with an OC 'friend'. He's good at messing with people's heads, but he's never tried to break someone as sane as he is. It doesn't go quite as planned... but if it did, it wouldn't be any fun!
1. Shatter A Cracked Vase

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: This fic is a bit weird. It's mostly first-person (although who the first person is varies), and I'm not even going to freaking <em>try<em> to draw attention away from the fact that the Author name is the same as the OC's name and this is a great chunk of Self-Insert. But I watched 'The Dark Knight' again and Heath Ledger is just _that good_ as The Joker. _I_ don't wanna do him (I don't want to go to Arkham) but the _character_ is just that fascinating.

I haven't fully decided if I'm going to try and do Joker/OC just yet. If I did, I don't know if it would be love or just him being a sociopathic bastard anyway.

Anyway, I'll cut it short. Let's just say that the Joker loves to mess with people's heads, and being in Arkham didn't change that, my god no. But things don't go quite the way he'd planned. Still, if everything went as _planned_, it wouldn't be any _fun_.

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><p>Chapter One: Shatter A Cracked Vase<p>

The funny thing about the Joker, aka Prisoner #4479, is that he doesn't have friends _or_ enemies. He has people he has use for, and people he has no use for. And the people he has use for are the people who aren't dead yet.

Call me Breech Loader. The guards call me Bridget Loranski but I don't like that name. The first person I killed I did it with a Breech Loader, and that's all you need to know for now. Well okay, maybe a little more. I'm a freak. Not like Eddie, bless his obsessive-compulsive socks. Oh no. The way dear Waylon Jones is like a croc? That's the way I'm like a cat. No, no, I'm not Catwoman. Under the cat, she's still human. Besides, she's not here. Blackgate's the place for people like her. As for how I got this way? It's nothing but a tale of corruption and horrible mutations and car chases and explosions. I'm sure you wouldn't be interested.

But enough about me. Don't get involved. Don't draw attention. It's a lesson you learn early at Arkham. And it goes doubly so when you're talking about the Joker.

Funny story. First time he came in here, they wanted the paint off. He wouldn't take it off. So they turned the fire hoses on him and took off the makeup that way. He wasn't happy about that. Not at all. Not that it made much difference; they still don't know his name. But he stole some black shoe polish for the eyes. Then he traded with my Johnny for some white shit to make into face-paint. But then he couldn't find _anybody_ who'd trade him for some lipstick. Crazy, crazy world, huh?

So he bit some bastard guard's finger off, and used that. And now... well, now he gets all the makeup he wants.

There is a method to the madness. You know something? I get the joke. But I don't say so, not because I'm any less fucked up, but because I'm not suicidal. The plan... when I saw the blogs, I got the plan. It was brilliant. But I don't say that either. Doctor Quinzelle... she was the part I didn't get. There's only one explanation for that, and no, I don't want to die just yet, so I don't mention it.

I don't want to die. Not when I'm making so much _progress. _I mean, they still keep my hands cuffed but I'm still making _progress._ Besides, the cuffs are _pathetic_. I only wear them to keep the doctors happy. And to keep them from trying methods of restraint that might actually be _effective_._  
><em>

I'm not crazy. Just a little... off, you could say. I see the world differently to most people.

Don't get involved. Don't draw his attention.

Oh no. Oh, no... Oh shitty death...

I looked too long.

You have to admit, he's fascinating. In a fucked up sort of way. Kind of like... all of us. Me too. Or I wouldn't be here, would I? On this side of the bars. On this side of the glass.

He slams his tray down on my table – which is rapidly evacuated by anybody who doesn't have a death wish - and then he starts eating, picking up food with his hands and shoving it into his mouth like an animal. The Joker isn't allowed cutlery. The orderlies don't even trust him with the plastic shit that I'm allowed. Still, llike me, his hands are always cuffed, "Why so... curious?" he asks. His voice is a soft hiss, occasionally interrupted by him licking his lips, or sucking on his scars. It's got a sort of playful, fluting quality to it.

"I must be crazy too, or I wouldn't be here, would I?" I answer without thinking. I do that a lot. _They_ call it making progress. I call it being stupid. I realise what I've said. The Joker is right on the other side of the desk. I stand up so fast the chair falls over. Great. Now he knows I'm scared of him. Then again, who isn't?

I'm about to make a run for it, sit with somebody safer, like Pam Isley or Arnie Wesker - hell, Waylon Jones, the Killer Croc, is safer than this bastard but then his hand snaps out like a cobra and he grabs my wrist. Pins it to the table. With my hands cuffed, that effectively pins _both_ my wrists to the table. I look around. Nobody is going to help me, and we both know it.

"You're smart..." he sucks on those awful scars on his face, "I like you. Of course, that doesn't mean I won't kill you. Now sit down." I hesitate, "Sit DOWN!" he snarls, like an angry dog.

I sit. My hands start opening and closing nervously on reflex, "I get the joke," I tell him.

"Do you? And what..." his grip tightens on my wrist, "is the _punchline?_"

"Crazy. Not crazy. It doesn't matter what _they_ say," I reply, "What's important is... which side of the glass you're on. If I wasn't in here... I wouldn't be crazy. If you'd been put in Blackgate, _you_ wouldn't be crazy. That's the joke."

My wrist hurts. I feel like my hand is going numb. To my surprise, he actually loosens his grip. Not much. But I can feel the blood returning to my hand at least.

"Not quite. But close. You... have a sense of humour," he smiles. It's creepy, "You know, my last guard didn't have much of a sense of humour. Didn't know when to laugh. I had to get rid of him." I don't take my eyes off him for one moment. Hardly dare to blink. He grabs my chin, and holds me so I _have_ to look at him. With us both in cuffs, that brings us horribly close, "You... You I could keep around for a while."

"For a laugh?" I ask scornfully, "Or just until you've figured out the funniest way to kill me?" _Damn._

"Kill you?" he raises his eyebrows as if he's genuinely surprised, "Now why... would I want to do that?" he smiles, and it's not a nice smile. He's weighing me up, "I always did say there should be more Wild Cards in the deck..." he flicks his wrist and produces a playing card – a Joker. Of course. He tosses it casually onto the table.

Then he twists suddenly, and I'm slammed onto my back on the dining table and _he's looking down at me._ Breathing fast. Got a hold on my hair. Got his elbow jammed in my ribs to keep me from sitting up. It's actually very painful. What I wouldn't give for a gun, or even a shiv... _anything_ to defend myself. It's all happening way too fast for thought...

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit..._

It's not a look of attraction. Oh no. Thank god for small mercies. Just one of interest, like he's the therapist telling me all about how to be normal. I hate those guard bastards but why won't they hurry up and just get a hold of him and make him let go...

"I bet... I bet you get real sick of the docs telling you how you should be normal?" he asks, sucking on those scars. He licks his lips thoughtfully, "Like you said, you're only crazy because you're in here... but they say you're crazy... until you're not."

"Funny thing about being crazy..." I wince as he looks down at me, "Is nobody ever believes you. Even when you tell the truth," Where's a fucking orderly when you _need_ one? They're all over you if you put one foot wrong for them, but when this sort of shit is happening... "You know that though... don't you?" It's the first question I've asked since this whole... thing started.

"You could be fun..." he looks at me with horrible interest, "What's your name... beautiful?"

'Beautiful'. Now that's definitely a joke. People don't call me that. Not somebody who's got more in common with Killer Croc than the human race. It's all a game to him. So I play along. It's the easiest way to not get hurt, if I'm lucky, "Bridget. Bridget Loranski."

"I see..." he squints, leans even closer, "And what's your _real_ name, Ms Loranski?" he hisses.

We both know _exactly_ what he means, "Breech Loader."

"Well... Breech... I bet you've got a real good reason for people calling you after a gun," he smirks, "I don't like using guns; not really my style. Unless you're real careful... they're just too quick. BAM!" he slams a fist on the table, making me flinch, "And it's all over. What fun is that? Why... do they call you a gun? You quick?"

"Guns are... the only thing in this world that are only meant to kill," I squirm. His hand is pinning my wrist and the other has a handful of bone-white hair and he's _way too close_. He smells like he's been avoiding showers for a week. I try not to panic. He'd love that, "A shiv- a blade, now that's a _tool_. You can use it for all sorts of things. Killing's just one of them. But a gun... that's _special_. The only thing you're meant to do with a gun... is kill people. That's why they call- called me after a gun."

"Hmmm..." he lets go of my hair and wrist just before the guards get to him, and sits down as if we'd been chatting about the weather and I hadn't just been in fear for my life. I get off the table in a hurry and sit back down. The entire cafeteria's been watching like hawks for the punchline, but I'm not dead.

_I'm not dead._

I bet he loved that attention.

"You see, Breech," his voice rises a little louder, so that everybody can hear, and he waves his hands vaguely, "People take life so _seriously_. They just don't get the joke..." he runs his tongue around his scars, "Oh, life is so short. You should savour every moment... Do whatever you feel like... because today might be your last day alive... and one day... IT WILL!" he lunges forward. I reel back in fear. But there's no physical contact. Still, my fear makes him laugh, "Take it easy. Relax. Hey, live a little," he leans back, hands behind his head, as if we're in a health spa and not the nuthouse.

I look at him. He's waiting for me to speak, "You say the only sensible way to live in this crazy world is without rules," I say finally, "You say you're the sane one and everybody else is crazy."

"I do say something like that."

"I say that there are no rules. None that really last, anyway. There is no right and there is no wrong. There's only what the majority believes is right. If the majority believed that... that wearing a codfish was fashionable, that would make it so. Once upon a time... I happened to be a very unfashionable person." I finish.

I stare at my hands, flat on the table. I've said too much. Given him too much to work with.

"My therapist says I'm making progress," I say finally. It's true, you know. Doctor Crane's the best doc in Arkham, he should know.

"Oh, really? And does _he_ know how... _unfashionable_ you really are?" the Joker asks.

"He says I'm making progress," I repeat.

There's a pause, "Do you _want_ to?"

I don't answer. I don't _have_ an answer. I just look at the table.

"Never do anything you don't want to do. Do what _you_ want to do. That's how I live. People ask me why I kill people and blow shit up and I'm sure somewhere there's a very satisfying, very plausible reason for it... a great Freudian excuse, possibly involving an abusive father or something... but it _wouldn't be true_. I do this stuff because _I want to..._ and so do you," he smiles creepily.

"If you weren't... on this side of the glass..." I hesitate, "You'd make one helluva philosopher."

"I get to people," he replies, as if it's something to be proud of, "You can feel it... can't you? Me getting to you? Taking away all that, uh... _progress?_ What are you going to tell _Doctor Crane?_"

"Doctor- Jonathan Crane isn't my therapist," I tell him.

"That's right... or at least, he _won't_ be, when all those little tips he gives you, uh... _pay off,_ and Doc Hugo Strange declares you fit for parole tomorrow," the Joker licks his lips slowly.

"How do you know..."

"I just do," he smiles eerily, "I'm _very_ good at finding things out. So, Breech Loader... who did you _used_ to be?" he hisses softly, licking his lips and smiling thinly as he changes the subject.

"An intern. As a lab assistant," It's a lie, but I've made the leap, and it's too late to take it back now, "College is expensive. I had to pay for it somehow. So yeah, I worked at a lab for creating little medicines to cure some of life's little problems for a while, and then I plugged a clerk. Of course, you don't get put in Arkham for a little thing like that. I probably should've stopped at one, but after I'd pulled that trigger once... it got easier and easier. So... here I am. And I'm _making progress._" I'm emphasising the words desperately.

He doesn't believe me any more than I do.

"Remember, Breech," he grins, "There are no bad hands. Just bad players."

I stare in confusion. And then, to my immense relief, the bell rings and the orderlies clear the cafeteria. I finally relax. It's over. It's recreation time, at least for some of us. Some of us are just too dangerous to be given recreation time. I'm one of the lucky ones. Joker is not.

He stands up and walks away from the table, to be escorted by specially chosen armed guards, back to his cell, and doesn't look back. I'm just starting to stand up again when I see something.

On the table, wedged between my first and second finger, is the Joker's little parting gift; a long, sharp piece of glass. He could have killed me at any moment with it. But he didn't. I'm still useful, somehow.

I stand there for a long moment. A moment that feels almost empty. And then, because I've almost forgotten what it feels like to hold something sharp, I pull the long shard of glass out of the table, and slip it into my orange prison slacks.

And a tiny part of me knows that now... I'm a part of one of his plans.

And a tiny part of me is _glad_.

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><p>Me: I seriously doubt that the OC is a Mary Sue when she is, frankly, insane, but that's for you to decide. I mean, like Breech says, it's all about perspective. But please, all opinions are appreciated (although if you really hate it I'd like you to at least be polite about that). Constructive criticism is definitely always appreciated, otherwise how could I make my work better?<p>

Oh, and I'll also say that if you like The Joker, you should find and watch "The Joker Blogs" (on YouTube and also on Facebook) sometime. Like, right NOW. No, I did not have any part in their production. It's just that they are what GOD would be like, if he was riding a motorcycle constructed of PURE AWESOMENESS.

Now review. What are you waiting for? Get the hell on with it! Tell me what you think! There's so much more to come!


	2. Shiv to the Chest

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: Two reviews? That's all? You guys make me sick to my stomach. No, just kidding, thanks. I'm glad we're off to a good start.<p>

As for Points of View, pretty much everybody's gonna get a look at somebody else. Breech, the Joker, Batman, Bruce Wayne, hell at one point you're gonna see a scene from Eddie Nygma's point of view.

I can't really tell you a lot without ruining everything, except that this story is not just about the Joker and his plans, it's about crazy people interacting. Oh, and that Breech is not a nice person dealt a poor hand. She _deserves_ to be in Arkham.

When the chips are down, the only person responsible for who we are... is ourselves.

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><p>Chapter Two: Shiv to the Chest<p>

I know she took the glass. It's not about knowing a person. It's about knowing what all people are like. I hope she likes my little gift to her, that's all. It could come in handy.

Arkham is full of freaks. Regular freaks like me, and freaks like Breech. When you look more like a cat than a human, something went wrong with your genetics. Or in a lab. We've got a few lab freaks here too. She's always talking about how she got that way, and no story is ever the same twice. Copying me like that. I hate copycats. On the other hand, she _was_ here almost a year before me. And I'm pretty sure she remembers the truth, too. Or A truth.

Not like me. I don't really remember _anything_ before the scars, and even after the scars, things can get a little fuzzy – like you've just been punched in the head, you know? I just make wild guesses and make up little white lies.

Did I hate my father? Did I have a lousy wife? What about the one with the chemical plant? Most days I think I was _born_ to be this way. What the hell does it matter, anyway?

She's going to be useful.

And fun...

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><p>I'm still alive. I try not to think about it too hard. The piece of glass will serve as good as a shiv in a pinch. It's scary to even think about why he left it with me.<p>

I sit down in the outdoors recreation area, hands cuffed and... just sit. I'm so close to getting out. I should just smash this piece of glass and be done with it. Several of the bigger, crazier bastards are pointing at me and muttering. They say that when the Joker gets bored, he gets out of his cell at night and goes for a little wander. Surely he'd get caught before he wound up in the women's wing?

Wait, what am I thinking he'll try? No, he won't try that. Just not his style. Hopefully.

_They_ say the Joker doesn't sleep. Well, everybody sleeps, but he doesn't really sleep; that he subsists on black coffee and traded drugs and sleep deprivation. They say it takes two shots of Ritalin to take him down; that dose could take down a fucking horse. I don't sleep that much, but that's mostly because when I sleep, I remember. And waking up doesn't chase the memories away either. Johnny knows about the remembering, though I'll never tell what. Doc Strange doesn't. I don't see what gives _him_ the right. You need to _earn_ the right. You need to earn the right for everything.

Besides, it's not like any of us really _sleeps_ in Arkham Asylum. It's something about the walls. When _they_ brought me here, I knew the patients and orderlies and doctors might be a problem, but the _walls?_ A prison I could handle, but the walls of Arkham... just _beg_ for mercy.

Damn. Interrupting my train of thought, one of the big crazies is coming up to me right now. He's about seven feet tall and four feet wide. Two feet taller and I'm guessing at least three times my weight. A goddamn brick wall.

"Go away." The words blurt out abruptly.

"Heh. Make me, Loranski."

"Don't call me Loranski. Have some respect for the dead. And in case you missed the little performance in the cafeteria, today has not been a good day for me, Mackenzie. Go away, or else."

"Heh... Or else what?" he grins.

I frown, and stand up, pacing slightly. On my second round, I slip my hand into my slacks and take hold of the glass blade carefully, "Or else the Joker wins the game," I warn him. I don't know what the Joker wants but he didn't give me this blade to trim my claws.

"I don't see how-" I spin around and ram six inches of glass into his chest. My own hand gets sliced up in the process, but I finish up by ramming his own hand onto the glass until it's right in. The orderlies are already running over. I think I punctured Mackenzie's lung.

"Whoopsie-doodle!" I tell him. Then I become almost aware of a stare at my back, and turn to look. It partly surprises, partly terrifies me that the Joker is standing at a cell window, watching the whole thing. He doesn't do anything. He just... looks at the scene like I put it on as a special performance just for him. I look away again quickly, even as three orderlies pile into me, knocking me down to the ground.

Mackenzie's still gurgling. Face down in the dirt, being pounded by a bunch of sadistic orderlies' nightsticks, I wonder if he'll live. Also, my hand hurts.

Well, this'll put a stint on my probation and declaration of sanity. I wonder if that was what the Joker wanted. To keep me in here.

Get your fucking mind out of the gutter. He doesn't want _you_. This isn't about _you_. The Joker doubtless has bigger plans than bagging some freak for a night of fun. This is the maniac who set fire to a fucking fortune because he felt like proving how worthless money is. If he really wanted you, he'd have already made a move in the cafe.

I don't fight - it's a bloody hard thing to do in cuffs even when you've worn them nearly three years - but the orderlies keep on at me until their sadistic pleasures for causing pain are satisfied - by which time, even rolling with the blows the way I have done for years, I'm damn near unconcious. Then I'm dragged away to the infirmary - dragged since I can hardly stand. Several patients are confirming Mackenzie was threatening me. Some are even saying _he_ pulled the glass on me and I fought back. He wasn't a popular guy. I lost my improvised shiv. Shame. But I'm glad too. Even though I know under the black fur there's gonna be _so_ many bruises tomorrow...

I nearly have a fucking heart attack when I see the Joker in the infirmary, nursing a cut on his forehead and grinning. He looks like he was thrown into a wall. I gasp and back away quickly – a handprint – or should I say pawprint? - of blood gets smeared on a clean surface, "Well if it isn't the little, uh... _progress maker,"_ his lips curl up into a contemptuous smile as he looks at me.

"I blame you for Mackenzie getting stabbed," I insist, "If you hadn't... fuck, he deserved it, but this is gonna set me back _months_. And you _know_ it..." I glare like hell, "I was _ready_ now."

"Didn't you like my, uh... little _gift?_" he asks, pretending to sound hurt, "That scum was moving in on you like you were a bitch in heat and he was a dog, and my little present to you got him _exactly_ what he deserved."

"No, if I'd given him what he deserved it'd have gone into his _balls_," I snap. What the hell does he want?

"And now look where we are," he gestures to the room, "True, I had to pull a little suicide attempt to get here but look at all this, uh... _great stuff_..." he giggles as he gestures at the sharp stuff around the room, "Now Breech, aren't you going to be polite and thank me for that?"

There's an ugly silence, and he narrows his eyes, and lunges forward, grabbing my chin. I'm no weakling but the Joker is at least a foot taller than me, and stronger. Again I'm in that horrible place he put me before, where even with the pair of us in cuffs he's in control and I'm on my back with him studying me intently, and once again we are _way_ too close for comfort. He's a six foot man weighing at least 160lbs and I'm a five foot feline weighing in at 90lbs and he knows that whatever else he's got planned, that is a fact boiling in both our minds that is terrifying me, "_Say thank you_," he growls.

I snatch up a scalpel and hold it to his face. I doubt it would do much good – even if I did get a stab in, the Joker strikes me as the kind of guy who'll keep going even with a bullet in the gut, "_What_... do you want from me?" I ask him.

He looks at the scalpel. He's not scared, but the fact that I dared to pull something like that seems to intrigue him. Goddamnit... should've just cringed and whimpered like before, "Ah... the direct approach," he grins eerily, and licks his lips, "Thing is, all the time you were here, you stayed all nice and quiet. You didn't cause trouble - well, not much - and you didn't get attention. In fact, apart from that little incident with Scarecrow, you made yourself pretty boring. And yet... just when you're coming up to getting out and going back to _their_ world, you get my attention. And on top of _that_, you stab a guy for coming on strong. You know damn well the world is full of evil bastards. You make me wonder, do you really want to go back out there? You make me wonder... how that little head of yours, uh... _really_ ticks along."

I grit my teeth, but making a stab attempt now will just piss him off, "Leave me _alone_," I hiss.

Joker holds my chin, looking into my eyes as if he's making his choice, "But then, uh... how would I _ever_ know how your head works?" he asked, "This, uh... this isn't just for me. This is for the good of Gotham City too, ya see. If you're nuts and holing it all up inside... well, that's just not _healthy_. Can't have the docs letting you out when you're really crazy. But if you're sane, you'll let it out normal-like. Nice and controlled. But then again... would a sane gal stab a guy with a piece of glass? I mean, look at what you've done to your hand!" he chastises me with a wide grin.

"I'm interesting," I say finally, "You let me live because I'm interesting."

"Close," he pulls back and lets go of my face. I'm scared shitless, but I lower my scalpel in response. Part of me wants to burst into tears, but the time I've spent in the same Asylum as the Joker lets me know that crying in front of the Joker is not a good idea. It doesn't invoke sympathy, it doesn't provoke mercy, and there have been times I've seen him beat _shit_ out of other inmates for crying while he beats shit out of them.

"So... I'm part of the big plan now?" I ask, "I'm a component? You always have a plan." His hands are large but surprisingly well-kept for a guy who looks – and smells - like he hasn't washed in a month.

"You _are_ a clever girl," he smiles creepily and pulls back. My relief is indescribable. Unless you're a woman, I can't begin to express how terrifying it is to having somebody like the Joker that close to you, "But still... you might just have to die. Things have to go according to _my_ plan, you see?"

"Dying is an inevitability," I reply. I sit on a chair and scrutinise the Joker as he does me, "In fact, it's the only inevitability. But I still fight it." If he doesn't like me looking at him, then that is his problem.

"I repeat, sweetie, _my_ plan," Joker grins and pats me on the head like a pet, "Now... we're in a room full of sharp utensils. Pick your poison, Breech." I have no doubt he's already filled his pockets with sharp objects. I pause, then slip a razor into my slacks, as well as the scalpel. I'm careful not to show any of my body to Joker while I do so. I don't have any intention to give him any excuses.

"Now," Joker grins and licks his lips, "Tonight some fun is going to happen. I want you to be there when it goes down. Got that, little kitty?" he takes my face, and the touch this time is disturbingly gentle. The violence is almost preferable, "Get out of your cell, and then... there we'll really see some, uh... _fireworks_."

"Fireworks..." I say flatly. Then I punch him in the face - yes, you CAN do that while wearing cuffs, in fact there's a shitton you can do while wearing cuffs when you've been wearing them as long as I have, "Oh no you fucking won't!"

Joker winces, "How many times do I gotta tell people? You don't start with the head. It makes the next blow all fuzzy and you can hardly feel-" I knee him in the crotch. He winces only slightly, "See? I like you Breech. I definitely like you. All that _anger_..."

I grab his orange prison slacks and drag him nose-to-nose, even though I have to pull him down a foot to do it and get my blood all over his slacks, "I want Arkham to stay standing, okay? Is that so much to ask?" I realise my voice is changing from a low purr to a yell, "This place is hell, and you know why it's hell? Because it _never ends. _Hell should stand forever. I wasn't always this way! I was human once – like you! And I want this place to stay. It has to stay standing. When it dies... when it dies, it dies _slowly_ and _painfully_, just the way it lived!"

"Ms Loader," Joker giggles madly at the furious expression on my face, "I do believe I'm falling in love..."

I'm starting to realise this was a bad idea but I'm too far in to stop here, "Get in line!" I snap, "Arkham doesn't burn, got it? Fire is too quick for this place!"

The Joker growls, and lashes out with both fists. The punch knocks me to the floor like a rag doll. He narrows his eyes. looking down at me, and I regret my outburst more than ever, afraid of what violence might come next, "You're pretty mouthy, Breech," he growls, and suddenly kicks me in the gut, real hard, almost all the way into a corner, "Your attitude... it's really, uh... getting on my _nerves_..." he licks his lips and starts reaching, probably for one of the sharp objects he's picked up.

I curl up with a whimper, before looking up suddenly, "You like jokes, Joker?" I ask him, "Here's a joke I think you'll like. Two men were given a choice of two deaths by their enemy. Each was told he could die quickly and painlessly, or he could die slowly and in agony. And the first guy, he chose to die quickly. So his enemy shot him in the head. But the second guy, he chose to die slowly and in agony. And you know what? He lived until he was 90. Because the fastest way to live, is to die, and the slowest way to die, is to live. I've got plans for Arkham too. And they aren't so merciful as to involve _just_ fire."

Several moments pass, before he finally relaxes, and starts laughing, eventually slowing to a halt, "Find me before midnight, Breech. And Arkham Asylum dies slowly and begging for the end, just like it deserves to. Fail... and this little rathole gets cleaned out with fire. And you and your pals go down with it."

It's hard to tell under the thick, poorly applied makeup and those awful scars, but... something tells me that crazy bastard is smiling.

* * *

><p>Me: Yep. Breech ain't crazy <em>because<em> of the Joker. She's crazy _in spite _of him. Just differently. And just like everybody else in Arkham she thinks she's the only sane person in the world.

Whatever will happen next? Will Breech get out before midnight? Will she sit tight and hope for the best? Will she outsmart the Joker? Will I ever cease to ask questions you know the answers to? Anyway, I want 3 MILLION reviews right now or you never find out HOW.


	3. Parole Not Granted

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: For the sake of he who asked, 'Johnny' is Doctor Jonathan Crane, aka The Scarecrow. I had no idea there would be anybody who wouldn't guess. Yes, Breech was very good friends with Doctor Crane. That will be quite important at several points...<p>

I've made a very small alteration to the previous chapters – because she's an anthromorphic feline, Breech, like Joker, is almost always restrained by handcuffs. But when you've been wearing cuffs for as long as they have, you learn to still be able to do a lot in them...

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><p>Chapter Three: Parole Not Granted<p>

"You were doing so _well_, Bridget. You were up for parole. You knew that. And then you had to ruin it all by stabbing another patient." Doctor Hugo Strange is chewing me out for giving that asshole Mackenzie a stabbing, "Why did you do it?"

I look at my hands, resting on the table, and the handcuffs that I could get out of in a matter of seconds. I hate Strange. In fact I think if I killed him it might even be for pleasure, "Is he dead?"

"Ah, so you still care... He's in intensive care. You punctured a lung. I thought you had real potential to recover, Bridget. I even hoped you might be coming to terms with actually comprehending what it was you did wrong that resulted in you being kept here."

I look vaguely over his shoulder. Doctor Crane taught me what to say. All about regret and so forth. To hell with that. I look Strange in the eyes, "He deserved it."

You know, Strange is one of the worst. Always trying to stay in control, and never, ever caring while pretending he does. To him, I'm just another book on how he 'cured' a high-risk patient, "...Mind telling me where you got the glass?"

I think about it. It wasn't mirror glass. So where did it come from? Beats me. It looked like window glass, but the windows of Arkham Asylum don't shatter easily, "There's glass everywhere in this hole," I say finally, "You can't take it all away."

"What about your hand? Don't you even _care_ that you hurt yourself?"

I look at my bandaged hand thoughtfully, "Hurts like a bitch," I say simply, "But I've had worse."

Doctor Strange shakes his head, "This could set you back months, Ms Loranski. You are lucky you're not being put in solitary for this."

"Solitary..." I stop listening there. People never _listen_ to me. Bridget Loranski's been dead for coming on ten years now. I mean, you don't exactly go through what she went through and _live_. Even Doctor Crane understands that; why do the shrinks not get it?

Besides, I have more important things to worry about. What does it matter if I'm set back a few months, if the Joker blows Arkham sky-high tonight? Everybody dies –Johnny, Waylon Jones, Pam... All dead. Or is it a bad joke? Warning the orderlies or the doctors won't help; when people think you're crazy, nobody believes a word you say. And the more you try to prove them wrong? The crazier you'll appear.

So I tune out like Johnny taught me to, smile, nod and listen just enough to know when a question is asked, otherwise I'll get into trouble. Get into trouble... an idea is forming... Something breaks me out of my daze.

"Loranski, are you even listening to me?"

"Hmm? Oh, who's to say I wasn't?" I ask politely.

"Well, I did just comment that your mother is the Queen of Sweden and your father is a large potato. If you want to get out of here, you need to _listen_."

I scowl, "Maybe if _you_ were the one listening, you might be making some progress."

"I am _trying_ to listen. But you have to talk for me to listen," Strange starts to scribble a few more notes.

"But you're not listening with your heart!" I start to scream, "You're not listening with your HEART! You are DEAD inside! You were dead from the moment you were BORN! You're DEAD!"

I grab his pen and snap it in half. He's summoning the orderlies. Just like I thought he would. This is going to hurt me a lot more than it's going to hurt them.

"You're DEAD, Strange! You can't hear me because you're already DEAD!"

The first blow comes from behind. Just like an Arkham orderly to start from behind. The second blow comes to the gut. Those two blows should keep me down, and I'm not even really fighting, but for an Arkham orderly, one's too many, two is never enough.

All I can do is roll with the punches.

* * *

><p>I wake up a few hours later. I have no idea of the time, but I'm in monitored solitary, and I hurt like fucking hell. Still, when needs must, the devil drives. No point trying to rub the pains out of my bones. It's time for phase two, which is the part which will hurt <em>them<em> a lot more than it'll hurt _me_.

Am I ready? Yes. I'm ready. It's time to leave. Like the cuffs, I probably could have gotten out of this dump at any time. But sometimes you need to take a step back from the world... vanish for a little while... get things back into perspective. Maybe I'll explain some other time.

The Joker told me if I found him before midnight, he'd let Arkham stay standing. If not, it goes up in flames. Probably with me inside, along with everybody else. Just how long have I got?

Perhaps he'd...

No. Don't flatter yourself, Breech. He won't come back for you. That monster has a genius-level IQ, and whatever his plan, you're just an amusing side-plot.

So the question is, how do I get out of the cell? If I can't do it, I don't _deserve_ to get out. The only way out is through that door. The Joker got out of his cell. So there is a way out. You've got to... think outside the box.

The box, the box... they've got a camera watching this box all the time.

The box. Goddammit, the box... The door is locked. So there's only one way out. I almost laugh, it's so fucking obvious. If you can't open the door... you get _them_ to open it up. By hook or by crook, as it is said.

I hurl myself into a wall.

* * *

><p>The door opens, and I lie still, waiting for the right moment, "The Doc thought this freak was getting better. Idiot. Today she got slammed by the Joker twice, stabbed a guy with some glass, attacked Strange, and now a fucking suicide attempt?"<p>

A second guy speaks, "Hey, maybe it's a bad day for her."

And a third voice, whom I instantly recognise as Jamieson, one of the biggest bastards ever to use a nightstick, which he does nearly nightly, "Don't be such a rookie, Chris. If you'd ever seen this freak in action on one of her _bad_ days... Fucking bitch..."

First guy again, "Guess I'll administer the sedative..."

Jamieson speaks again, "Why the hell bother? She's already out. I say we-"

_The moment is now..._

I crack my wrists like _so_ and _so_ while they bicker about whether it's worth beating me while I'm unconscious, and get my hands out of the cuffs...

Maybe I _should_ thank the Joker for the scalpel and razor blade because two orderlies are dead and a third is now on his back, for investigating my 'suicide attempt'. Or maybe I should just put a gun to my head and fire. They don't know how fast I can move; I estimate the time it takes to go from lying in a corner, to killing two orderlies and knocking down the third, to be about three seconds. Thank God Doctor Strange was too much of a coward to have me declawed...

Shame I had to break the deal we had that I wouldn't hurt anybody with them...

I look at Jamieson, who's trying to get up, and pin him to the floor by his neck with a foot. He might be a big, ugly, shaven bear but he's one helluva coward. He doesn't dare move in case I kill him.

"_Now_ do you feel it, Mr Jamieson?" I ask him, my voice a soft purr, "It's the Winds of Change." His eyes widen and I tread down hard, tearing out his throat with the claws on my feet. Then I dodge out the door and start running down the halls.

"Prison Break! Prison Break!" somebody yells suddenly, "It's Loranski! Goddammit somebody stop-"

I _hate_ it when people tell me to stop. While I'm running I pick up a chair and throw it, overarm, as hard as I can at a window. The window cracks heavily, but I don't stop there. I throw myself, eyes closed, back first, through that cracked window.

It's a three story fall to the ground. I land on my feet and roll to a stop, panting. My back should be in more fucking agony than the rest of me. But the first beating always numbs the second. Being a freak isn't so bad when you can fall over seventy feet without a scratch. Forty feet is nothing.

More guards. And these fuckers have _guns_. Low calibre but a gun is a gun, you know?

"You don't get it, do you?" I kill some bastard and turn my attention, "I'm trying to _save_ you bastards! You're _making_ me kill you!" Another guard down, "Arkham will _not_ burn!"

I have a philosophy for plans. If you make a plan, it has the potential to go wrong. I'd rather live for the moment. I'm small, but I have long legs and I reach the next guard in three strides, slam the handgun up as he fires, and rip it out of his hand with my claws. He screams.

"There is a prisoner escaping and she is armed! Warning, she is now armed!"

I'm laughing now, even as I run for cover. I get it. I'm the fucking _distraction!_ I'm still laughing as I collide heavily with somebody much bigger and much better dressed than me, and look up. The Joker found his suit somewhere, and he is holding a shotgun and looking down at me as I'm laughing and crying at the same fucking time. For a moment he looks like he's thinking about killing me, but the gunfire from the guards resumes and it looks like I'm still more useful alive.

He sucks on his scars and licks his lips thoughtfully, "Getting, uh... the _joke?_" he asks finally.

"Fuck yeah!" I blurt out wretchedly. Then I spin around out of cover for a second, and fire six rapid shots at the chasing guards. Two go down and I'm out. I back behind cover – what wonderful irony that cover is the most dangerous person in Gotham, Joker.

Casually, like he does it every fucking day – I bet he does – he turns around from cover and fires off two shotgun shells and takes down two more guards while I'm still reloading. I look up. We're standing before Arkham's clock tower. _Meet me before midnight..._ It's five minutes to midnight.

"You said... you wouldn't burn down Arkham!" I gasp out. Not that I'm expecting him to keep his end of the deal, but it's worth mentioning.

"Oh, Arkham won't burn, Breech. Not when Batman gets here," he fires off another two shots, and this time I join him with my reload, "When you jumped out that window... they set off all the alarms. The cops and the Bat are on their noble way to save Arkham Asylum right now."

"YOU WHAT?" I manage.

"You're right you know, Breech," he tells me, "Burning is way too, uh... _merciful_ for this place. Now here... we... go!" he grins as the cops, sirens wailing, start to arrive, "Why Breech! I do believe our ride is here!"

"A cop car?" I ask stupidly as Joker steps out of cover again. I'm still alive. I'm still useful. The latter is not a comforting thought, since my imagination moves to fill my head with all the things I could be useful for.

"Wait, is that-" a shotgun blast from Joker eradicates a cop's chest, "The hell with Loranski! Shoot HIM!"

I just keep firing until I'm out, then turn to look at the Joker. _Stay useful_, "You want that car?" I ask him.

"Yeah, nice model, good condition, one previous owner," the Joker grins madly and shoots another cop in the chest. He falls onto the bonnet, leaving a thick stain.

I flip and roll forward, and spin kick the next cop in my way so hard he's knocked halfway across the parking lot. He drops his shotgun and I catch it before it can hit the cement. He'll probably live. Me... I can practically count my remaining lifespan in minutes hanging around with this lunatic. For some reason that I cannot fathom, I climb into the passenger's seat. The driver starts to raise his gun, so I blow his head off.

The Joker pulls the corpse out of the car and gets in, and hits the gas. Arkham Asylum is in uproar. The Joker looks at me, amused that I've joined him for this little ride into hell, "Now I know, uh... what you're about to _say_," he licks his lips thoughtfully, "You're going to, uh... to say _something_ about not letting Arkham Asylum burn again. You really want that hole to suffer slowly, don't you?"

The pause makes me realise an answer is required _right now,_ "Yes. Yes, I want it to suffer, and it can't suffer if it's all over." Another awkward pause, "Don't blow it up. Those people..."

He looks at me, slightly amused, "Oh, it won't blow. Probably not. I gave Bats two choices. Chase after me and keep me from, uh... _killing_ some more people, or stick around and save all those poor, innocent mental patients from horrible deaths. It'll be interesting to see which one he picks. Don't you agree?"

I grunt non-committedly, "Thanks to your plan, _Joker_, I took _six_ slammings today," I grimace, "Two from you, two from the orderlies, one from myself and one from that goddamn window..." I rub some of the places that are really _agonising_. Pain might be a temporary thing, but it's still fucking _painful_, "New record... Still, I've felt worse..."

Joker doesn't look sympathetic in the slightest, or even as if he heard me, "Hey, here's a little question for ya, Breech," he looks amused again, "What would _you_ do?"

"What?"

"You heard me. What would you do in Bats' place? Would you chase after the, uh... _violent psychopath_ with his helpless female 'hostage'," he makes quote marks with his fingers, taking his hands off the wheel briefly to do so, "who's going to kill more people... or would you stick around and find all the little _toys_ I hid around Arkham Asylum and save those poor, innocent lunatics, rapists and serial killers?"

I chew on my lip, "Will it make a difference?"

"It might."

"Then... then I'd chase you," I say finally.

"You'd _chase_ me?" he sucks on his scars, "You'd leave Arkham Asylum to _burn_, after all that _fuss_ you made about making it suffer?" He slams on the brakes and pulls over and suddenly, quickly and effortlessly produces a flick-knife and angles it to my neck, "You'd chase me?"

"Uh-huh..."

He studies me closely, but... he's not asking why, "Hmmm..." he strokes my neck with the knife, and I don't know what's going to happen. Then he lunges forward and I'm pinned in a cop car with a knife at my neck. Finally my hands are free but the Joker doesn't need restraints to hold you down, "You wanna hear a little story?" he asks, "You wanna know, uh... _how_ I got these scars?"

I bite down on my lip, certain I'm about to find out.

"Y'see, a few years ago, I was workin' for this mob boss. A real dick, but his lady friend... she's a sight to see. Almost as lovely as you are. I get involved with the lady. Yeah, bad idea, I know, but hey... he finds out and you know what he does? He sets me up over a woman! A _woman!"_ he growls and I flinch, "I survive, but I'm not happy. Not happy at all. And I'm heading to his office to sort it all out with a bullet to his head but he's waiting with some goons and he says..." Joker sucks on his scars, "_Why so serious?_ And you know what? After a little help from him, I learned... to kick back... and enjoy life a whole lot more."

I whimper with the knife at the corner of my mouth. Loyalty and gratitude mean nothing to this bastard. If I'm no more use to him, I can expect to be gutted like a fish.

Unexpectedly he pulls back, straightens his tie, and puts his hands on the wheel, although he's not driving right now, "So... enjoying your little, uh... _road trip?_"

"It's okay... I just wish..." I hesitate.

He licks his lips, "What?"

"I wish I was wearing something more... suitable, you know?" I ask, "You've got your suit on, but me, I'm stuck in this," I tug on the orange Arkham slacks.

"Hmmm..." he studies me and I squirm while he does so, "I think, little kitty, that you would look very good in, uh... _red,_" he pockets his shiv and puts his foot back on the gas, "Okay then, little kitty. Let's go get you something nice, huh?"

* * *

><p>Me: How was the escape? Came a little earlier than you expected, huh? Don't worry, that just means that there's going to be a lot of chaos upcoming.<p>

That's right; even Breech Loader, who just killed three guards in a matter of seconds, is afraid of the Joker. But you know why so much of this is present tense? Because people like Breech Loader think in terms of the _here_ and _now_. Because you never know when you're going to get a knife in the gut.

And where are my millions of reviews?


	4. Diagnosis In Red

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: I'm glad it seems to be going well, although it's slightly saddening that I'm only getting two reviews for my chapters. I mean, COME ON! If you read it, you must have an opinion on it!<p>

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><p>Chapter Four: Diagnosis in Red<p>

"Her _real_ name is Bridget Loranski. From her files she's a manic-depressive, obsessive-compulsive, highly impulsive woman with a variation on the inferiority complex," Doctor Jeramiah Arkham told the looming Batman, "She can be rather uncooperative, and _extremely_ violent – we had to keep her hands cuffed at all times. But unlike the Joker, she never committed any act of violence without a rational – if not always justifiable - reason. She is not a violent person by nature. She is in fact, one of the most empathic individuals I have ever studied."

"Anything else I should know?" Batman asked.

"She's a paranoid-schizophrenic, suffers from delusions regarding the nature of morality, and has a genius-level IQ of 147," Doctor Arkham heaved a sigh of exasperation, "And she spent a lot of time with Jonathan Crane, which probably gave her some insight into how to use her therapist. At one point we tried to stop their interactions. She stopped eating, drinking and sleeping. We had to reinstate their ability to spend time together."

"You _gave in_ to her demand?" Batman growled.

"She might have _died_ otherwise," Arkham sighed, "This is a hospital for the criminally insane and there were high risks. We thought that their interactions were a positive experience for both of them. A sign of progress."

"Anything else I should know about their 'interactions'?" Batman asked.

"Only this tape," Jeramiah Arkham sighed again, "It is _highly_ confidential material, especially since it was the primary reason we first tried to stop their interactions..."

The tape showed the feline woman entering a bathroom, and going into one of the stalls. Several minutes later, Jonathan Crane entered. He paused, then entered the same stall. Batman saw the lock turn to red.

"_Sexual_ interactions?" Batman asked, trying to keep the anger out of his voice.

"Yes, this is just one of them," Doctor Arkham replied, "But it was consensual on both sides."

"Why Crane? Why Loranski?"

"_Look_ at Loranski..." Doctor Arkham answered the man in the mask. He rewound the tape and froze it on an image of the anthromorphic cat walking in, "Most of her mental problems seem to stem from her physical appearance. If we knew how she mutated we might have been able to help her better. But she didn't trust _anybody_ enough to tell them the truth. All we know for sure is that she was once human, and that up until the age of 18 she lived a healthy, normal life in the United Kingdom. And she's officially a resident of the United States of America.

"As for Crane – his egomania doubtless found her obsessions and warped take on morality fascinating, and he thought himself more capable of... getting inside her head... than any of the doctors who had replaced him. The rest... is just a variation of the Florence Nightingale effect. I'm sure you've both heard of it-"

"When a doctor falls in love with their patient. Or vice versa," Commissioner Gordon agreed, "Let me guess – Loranski opened up to Crane more than she did her therapist. In return he felt superior to his former colleagues because of that."

"I'd say that would be the most plausible explanation for their interactions, yes," Jeramiah Arkham agreed, "We actually started secretly logging their conversations, finding them useful for assessing both of their progress outside of therapy."

"What happened when the Joker first arrived?" Batman asked.

"The Joker? He and Loranski barely interacted. They certainly never spoke," Dr Arkham replied, "Their cooperative escape couldn't possibly have been predicted. However, we know that the Joker brought up Loranski to Crane on at least one occasion – apparently in jest, but as a result he learned that she was up for review. Just a few weeks later... well, this happened."

Jeramiah Arkham put in the security tape showing the Joker approaching and then practically attacking the nervous feline freak.

Batman looked at the pictures of the freakishly feline woman with the 'tuxedo' fur pattern and white hair. Then he looked at the footage of her and Joker in the cafeteria. It was perversely frightening, watching the way he treated the much smaller woman. Then the Joker got up off her, and rammed the piece of glass into the table just before the guards got close enough to see what he was doing...

"Joker _gave_ her the glass," Batman concluded, "He attacked the weakest link, and when nobody helped her, she snapped again. And see here?" he pointed to the footage taking place in the infirmary, listening intently, "He convinced her to break out to keep Arkham Asylum from being destroyed. When she knocked out Harvey Bullock without weapons, he must have decided she was useful, and took her with him. It's a game for him – he's trying to turn this... symbol of hope... into a monster again."

Gordon paused, "Perhaps she'll turn him into her?" he asked hopefully, "If he somehow becomes attached to her, I mean. A woman can do funny things to a man's head."

"Can you honestly see a psychotic monster like the Joker, who has shown zero empathy for any living person, actually becoming attached to this woman?" Batman asked him. He turned to Jeramiah Arkham, "More importantly, can you see Loranski coming back – perhaps to break Crane out? Or to get away from the Joker?"

"It's impossible to guess with what little information we have," Dr Arkham replied evenly, "It was that need for acceptance which drove her to seek company in the form of Jonathan Crane; a therapist on her side of the glass. Now the Joker's accepting her."

"Might he try to break out to get to her?" Batman pressed.

"We've considered that already," Doctor Arkham answered quickly, "Jonathan Crane is currently under strict surveillance."

Gordon shook his head, "Either way, we _have_ to find the Joker. If his escape gets to the press... there could be mass panic. Chaos. And somebody like Joker would just love that."

* * *

><p>"Red. You'll look good in red, doll," Joker tells me again, pushing a red leather outfit into my arms just before he slams a foot on the gas.<p>

I look at it. It's very revealing. So far I've done all I could to disengage thoughts of sex from his sick head but wearing an outfit like this...

"You don't, uh... _like_ it?" Joker asks, feigning surprise. He waves his bloody shiv vaguely. He knifed the shop owner on his way out, "We could, uh... go to _another_ shop."

"I... uh..." I look at the outfit and remember the last costume I wore. That was red too. It was a lot less revealing though. I've been a Lady in Red almost as much as I have been Breech Loader.

"It's even, uh... _bulletproof_," Joker comments, licking his lips slowly, and smirking, as if that makes this outfit okay, "But not knife-proof, I'm afraid..."

"Not so much with all the... gaps in it," I reply, almost relieved at the opportunity to demean the outfit.

He narrows his eyes, "You know, Loranski, I'm, uh... getting just a _little_ tired of your gratitude problem."

This is the first time he's called me Loranski, rather than Breech, and it always bothers me, being called by the name of a dead woman, "It, um... has a certain appeal," I admit. It doesn't really, but it's probably easier this way. I pause, "Where are you taking me?"

He laughs; an ugly, guttural sound, "Me taking you? _Taking_ you? If I remember rightly, Breech, you got into the car with _me_. I don't make people do things. I just... happen to know how people work. Getting in with me... that, uh... _that_ was your choice."

I almost freeze up in horror as I realise the truth of his words. Then I grab the door handle, ready to jump out and roll with it. He sees it and grabs my right hand, pulling me so that I can't get out just now, "I won't stay!" I insist, "You don't have the right to keep me here and-"

He pulls me closer, gripping my cheeks and slowing his speed, one eye on the road, one eye on me, "After all the presents I've given you, you're just going to, uh... _run off?_" he asks, "Now, that's just _rude..._ What do you say when a gorgeous guy like me gives you presents and such a swell time? Huh?"

"I say that you frighten me, Joker," I tell him, trying to keep my voice calm, "You scare me and I'm no angel, but I can tell you right now, that even the monsters of Gotham hate you. Is that what you want to hear? That you're a sick, depraved, perverted monster?"

"Yeah, I've heard that before," Joker's expression becomes grim for a moment, but he lets go of my face. Then, as if looking for another excuse for amusement, he slams one of my hands on the wheel and holds it there. Now we are _both_ driving. But the hard words can't have hurt him much, as he smirks again shortly afterwards, "Got anything else, aha... _clever_ to say to me?" he asks, sucking on his scars.

"Just one thing," I admit, "I don't expect you'll believe me but... despite all the things you've done, people still want you to be... 'normal'. There was bets on at the Asylum. People were rooting for you! They really believed you could be... fixed!"

"I already told you, I'm not the crazy one," the Joker laughs, "I just see the world for what it is! The world is chaos! People are bastards! I just happen to admit it."

I don't answer this time, because he's right. He finally pulls up at a broken-down warehouse deep in the Narrows and looks at the cop car, "They're going to be looking for that," he says thoughtfully, "So... let them find it. It'll just have a few new improvements."

I look at the cop car. The improvements doubtless involve explosives or something. Killing cops and people was never something that worried me. It's civilians I don't like getting hurt. I mean, cops are just paid for this shit, but if you've got a job and some harmless bystander gets hurt, that's just... sloppy.

"Now you go inside and... make yourself look pretty in your new outfit," he tells me, pushing the leather into my arms, "If I finish up out here, and you're not done... well, your problem. Although..." he sucks on his scars again, making that sick noise, "Cats aren't really supposed to dress up."

"I'll get right in them," I assure him.

* * *

><p>It's a couple of hours later and, with great difficulty, mostly because of the way the aches of today's beatings are really kicking in now, I have managed to dress myself in the outfit. Without help from the Joker, thank god. Some stretching, and the outfit has been forced into laying against my body in a comfortable and moderately concealing position.<p>

I look around the place, first for a mirror. If the Joker's going to see me like this... well, let's just say I want to know how I look. There's only one mirror in the whole place though; it's in a filthy bathroom, and it's cracked, like somebody tried to smash it a long time ago.

I know the Joker doesn't bother much with hygiene, table manners, or fashion or anything even slightly related to what people might think of him. If anything, he's probably aware that it unnerves people even more. And I'll admit, I've got more important things to think about too. But nonetheless, the bathroom's condition is disgusting.

Still, what I see in the mirror... isn't so bad. Skin-tight sports bra... short leggings... and a duster longcoat. All in red. I remove the longcoat and hang it on the back of the door, and I'm about to go to the toilet, but one look at it is enough to put a thin protective layer of toilet paper around it first.

I don't want to be here. The Joker terrifies me, and that's a fact. Inhuman as I am, and regardless of the wild, sick things I've done and become... I don't want to be here.

_So why haven't you made a run for it?_

FUCK! I can't believe... what in the world was it that made me forget about running for it? I'm about to try it _right now_ when powerful arms wrap around my shoulders. The Joker has finished his upgrades and he's back to admire... me.

"Very nice..." he licks his lips, obviously enjoying any discomfort I feel with him being right up against me, "You look very, uh... _professional_."

I don't like the feel of his arms around me, "It's very revealing."

"It's very _flexible_," he corrects me, "Now if you went out and some punk got his ass handed to you while you were wearing the old slacks..." he kicks at the orange prison slacks, "You'd just be some escaped mental patient. But if you did it while you're wearing that little number... oh, they'd remember you all right. For the rest of their, uh... _lives._"

"Hmmm..." The thought has a definite appeal. On the other hand, his bare forearms are still around my bare shoulders and I don't like it. I shrug them off me and leave the bathroom quickly.

"The moment you jumped out of that three story window Breech..." he follows and starts pacing like an agitated animal behind me, "I just knew you were freak material. Just like me."

I fold my arms across my chest, "So what if I am?" I ask him, "Does that mean I'm going to be your pet, your bodyguard, your delivery girl? Hell no! I'm a Gotham girl. I can make my mark on this town just as much as you can."

He giggles slightly, "So much for progress, huh Breech?" He stands in front of me again, "Now... _look at me when I talk to you!_" he snarls, and grabs a handful of my white hair and makes me look right up at him, as he licks his lips, "I've been patient, and lenient. But you chose to come with me, remember? And now... well, you're part of the plan."

I look up at him, and I'm scared by what I see, "So what now?" I ask, my voice shaking a little.

"Now? Well..." he lets go, "Let me think... it's been five days, and I'm a little tired..."

Five days? Oh... five days without sleep, I think. I can usually make it three or four days without sleep – sometimes longer - before I can crash hard enough not to have my night-memories... although they're still there when I wake up, no matter how hard I try. When I was first doing it, I could make it up to nine, ten days, but then the crash would be longer, and the memories were harder and sharper. Took a while to get the time right so they'll be as vague as possible...

But having things in common with this psycho is not something I'm keen on, "And?" I ask.

"Don't want to sleep..." he mutters, "You. Make some coffee. Black. You, uh... _can_ do that, right?"

I shrug, and look in the kitchen. There's a lot of knives, and the filth is comparable to the bathroom. If I'm going to have to stay here, this place is going to get such a scrubbing...

"Uh, Joker?" I call nervously after searching all the cupboards, "There's... no coffee."

"What?" he looks in sharply.

"Not much food either," I add, "Just rat poison and... is this Ammonium Nitrate? Looks like you're gonna need to rob a grocery store or something."

"What about my pills?" he asks. He isn't really addressing me, but that reminds me that back in Arkham they gave him pills to try and _make_ him sleep, until they started injecting the medicine. I caught him flushing them once. But you don't snitch on inmates against the orderlies. You can get pills to keep you awake too. He traded for all sorts of amphetamines and shit back in Arkham.

I just shrug, and watch as he searches the cupboards as if to prove me wrong. He leaves the room and there's the sound of somebody searching the whole warehouse frantically; throwing things to the floor in his search. I sit down on a chair and wait. Whether he sleeps or not is no concern of mine.

Finally he returns to the kitchen. He sits down, his head in his hands, breathing hard. He looks... more vulnerable. Like he knows his body is going to _make_ him sleep, and he's a little bit scared. I almost feel sorry for him. _Almost_.

"Okay..." he growls softly, "But you... you're coming with me."

"What?" I wince as he grabs my wrist in another numbing grip.

The Joker pulls me along until we reach a room with a shabby desk, and a pile of grubby blankets in one corner... and the Joker's obsession in the other. The wall is covered in news reports and articles on 'who is the Batman' and crap.

He sits down heavily on the pile of blankets, "Now lie down," I pause, "Lie _DOWN!"_ he snarls, and pushes me to lie down on the sheets in my 'new' clothes, "Better," he mutters, and lies down behind me. What next? Oh god... I can feel him wrapping his arms around me.

"Ow... you know, that really... today's been a real bitch on these bones of mine," I grimace.

"Just... shut up. Relax... I could make you hurt a, uh... _lot_ worse..." The fact that we're both fully dressed doesn't seem to bother him. It relieves me beyond measure.

And yet... there's something totally weird about his 'embrace'. It's not like you'd hold a person. It's like a child might hold a security blanket. That feeling that I almost feel sorry for him is coming back and it's got _no_ reason to be there. I squirm slightly, find a position comfortable for me, and take a hold of his large hands. I hold them. At least if I'm holding them, I know where they are.

"Don't want to, uh... to _sleep_..." he mutters.

"It's okay," I say simply, wearily, "Neither do I..."

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><p>Me: Come on! REVEIW! Review review review! Right now! I don't mind bad reviews, as long as you're polite. Just tell me what you think.<p> 


	5. Interlude

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: What, no reviews? None at all? Well this is a short chapter, an interlude. I only thought it up when I was writing chapter 22, but it fits much better earlier on than that.<p>

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><p>Chapter Five: Interlude<p>

They only started when I became Breech Loader. Another of the side-effects of being an anthromorphic feline – and at first I thought I really _was_ going crazy.

_Feeling_ the shape of the future is different to _seeing_ the future. You know something important is coming, but you don't know the details of what and when, so you can't prepare for it, so it's almost useless. You only really understand after it happened. _You_ might call it a Sixth Sense, Precognition, Foresight, a Gift...

_I_ call it a bloody nuisance.

In Arkham, being legally insane and some sort of mutated freak, Doctor Hugo Strange called it Paranoid-Schizophrenia and hiked me up to the fucking eyeballs on Anti-Psychotics, constantly trying out his hypnotherapy sessions on me. They helped. They helped me discern fantasy from reality even more, and the 'feelings' were even sharper. Of course, being 'crazy' and locked away in a rat-hole where I could have no influence on the world, those feelings were even more useless than before.

Although I'll admit, they did come in handy sometimes, warning me that it was a bad idea to leave Arkham with a declaration of sanity and go back to work just before the Bat showed up. And again, when the Joker turned up with his chaos. It's almost a shame I had to break an orderlies' arm the first time, and attack Strange the second time. That set me back a while.

People are happy to believe a blatant lie is the truth when it pleases them, but when the truth is something they don't want to hear, they'll declare it a lie even when it's hitting them in the face. Every living being does it. Every religion does it. Even scientists do it sometimes. It's called living in denial.

The 'good' doctor never did believe me...

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><p>"<em>A subject under the influence of hypnosis would only do what they would be willing to do in a conscious state."<em>

_I sigh. Doctor Johnny 'Scarecrow' Crane warned me about Strange trying hypnosis sooner or later, and the things he'd ask about, "Doc, you have no _idea_ of the things I'm willing to do in a conscious state..." I purr softly. I'm not sure at all about this first session._

_A pause, "I want you to close your eyes. Relax completely. Clear your thoughts," something tells me tuning out his worthless drivel will make things tougher on me than him. We'll see what he can do with his 'radical therapy'... "It is quiet. Serene. And peaceful. There is no danger. Nobody to hurt you. Only stillness."_

_He's not describing my safe place. He's describing _his_ safe place. This bastard makes me wanna be sick..._

"_Breathe in deeply," ...I do so... "Open your eyes."_

_My eyes snap open, I'm in a safe place, and there's a voice..._

"_Describe this place to me."_

"_I feel safe here. There's sand under my feet..."_

"_Are you on a beach?"_

"_No, it's not a beach. It's just sand... cold, dry, black sand. Everywhere. In every direction. As far as I can see. There are stars above me, but they're not like the stars you see. There are mountains, but I know I could never reach them, even if I walked forever. And... I'm not alone... I'm never alone..."_

"_There is somebody with you?"_

"_Oh, yes. Lots of them."_

"_Them?"_

"_Oh, yes. More than I can count. All around me. They've got... more tentacles than eyes but less feet than mouths. Oh, look... there's the one that looks like a cross between a grasshopper and a bicycle! People call them freaks... monsters... nobody wants them... everybody fears them... except me."_

"_Are these... monsters... your friends?"_

"_Yes. I'm the only friend they've got."_

"_Tell them about how Bridget Loranski 'died'."_

"_They already know. They were there."_

"_Tell them again."_

"_I... don't think they want to hear that story again. They'd rather listen to the one where we killed seven men with a teacup. Or the one where we took down eighteen people in twenty-three seconds. Or about that laboratory we broke into and took the data without taking a single life. Or even being seen."_

"_I see... And do you feel safe here? With these monsters?"_

"_It's the _only_ place I feel safe- Wait!" I have a feeling... "Wait... somebody is coming..."_

"_Oh? Do you know this person?"_

"_I... I don't know him... I can't see his face yet... People are calling him a monster... He's violent and destructive and angry... He's covered in fresh blood... He keeps threatening me... He might even kill me... I'm afraid of him... I've never been afraid of monsters before..."_

"_You think he is dangerous? Then do something. Defend yourself. Run away."_

"_No, I can't do that... He needs my help."_

"_This man is dangerous. He will hurt you. You know it. Do not help him. Turn away from him. He cannot hurt you here."_

_I feel tears running down my face, "But he's so _alone_... Nobody should be alone... not even monsters..."_

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><p>That was just over a month before the Joker arrived. I see now where it all fits. A lone threatening man, covered in blood, who needs my help. Okay, it wasn't as wholesome and simple as that... but feeling the future never is. It's time to leave Arkham, even though I effectively have to climb over the fence. It's time to get back to my job, whether for better... or for worse.<p>

Thanks for the hypnotherapy, Doc...

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><p>Me: Well, partly because of no reviews, and partly because it's such a short chapter, there's two chapters going up this week. Also because it's been a little while since I put up a chapter. Now read and review!<p> 


	6. Grocery Store

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: Yup, two chapters at once. Nothing special about that.<p>

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><p>Chapter Six: Grocery Store<p>

When I wake up, I'm still alive.

I'm also still fully dressed.

Nothing horrible has happened to me – possibly because at my back, the Joker is still deeply asleep. He has been for hours. Now would be an excellent time to get up and smash something so hard over his head that his neck breaks. Don't think I couldn't do it.

But he's holding on to me pretty tightly, and even though he's deep asleep, I'm not sure he wouldn't notice if I pulled away. In that eerie, hard sleep of his he mumbles something – something about chaos – and holds on.

I don't wake him. Keep my breathing even, and my body relaxed. The longer he sleeps, the better for everybody. Especially me.

Still, I can't help but realise that... I'm warm. In Arkham, it was always chilly in those cells. It's partly because of him holding on to me, and partly because... well, he feels too hot. Hotter than a normal human should be, but not quite feverish. Or maybe he does have a fever. It's a very long time since I've been that kind of doctor. Or human, for that matter. Is he sick? And why should I care? If he died, everybody in Gotham would be that little bit happier.

"Breech?" he mutters.

Shit. He's awake.

"What?"

"Coffee. Now."

"You're out of coffee. That's why you fell asleep, remember?" I ask.

He rolls so that he's sitting up and looking down at me, his expression almost accusing. The increasingly familiar feeling of being intimidated rises, "I'm sure a clever girl like you can get some," he smirks thinly.

"Hey, if you wanted somebody who could do your grocery shopping, maybe you should have picked out somebody a little more... human," I remind him.

"Hey," he pushes me back down on the bed with an angry growl, and starts pulling on my hair, "Did I actually say anything about you _buying_ coffee? Huh? Just _get_ it."

"Okay, okay..." I manage, "Just... would'ja mind... letting me up? It's kinda hard to..."

He sits back and leans against the wall, watching me as I stand up. As things stand, I'm still not sure whether he classes me as an accomplice or a hostage, and I'm not sure he's decided either.

"Oh, and one more thing," I say, "I'll need a gun. Something... rapid-fire."

"A gun?" Joker raises an eyebrow, "Why a gun? Wouldn't you prefer something slower? Like a shiv?"

"Look, if you're going to keep calling me Breech Loader, I'm going to need to use a gun. Besides, I've got something fun in mind. I just wanna give it a try. See if it works out."

He gives me a look, as if he's weighing me up for what he thinks I'd do. I shouldn't but I want to; I badly want to try this out. It seems he can read that, and he gets up, and hands me an automatic. It's got the capabilities for a grenade-launcher. I pause, take the professional position, and aim at him. I really ought to fire...

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><p>I'll just say this to get it out of the way, no, I didn't fire. Should have, didn't. Joker didn't even flinch when I aimed at him. Either he knew I wouldn't fire, or he didn't care whether I did or not. And I should be running for my life right now, to the safest place to be, which is ironically, Arkham Asylum. Now that really is funny, right? The safest place to be right now is Arkham Asylum. No wonder the Joker likes it there so much.<p>

I shrug and start walking, the automatic kept hidden in the long red duster I've put back on. The Joker likes purple, but he doesn't like copycats. Well, he likes them a little. I've heard how much he likes to _deal_ with them.

I reach a grocery shop, and walk on in. The first thing I do is fire into the air, "Everybody please remain calm! Do not panic!" I shout as several people look at me, and scream at the sight of me. I'm used to it, "This is just your old-fashioned, no-frills hold up! So everybody shut up, lie face down on the floor, don't try any heroics, do as I say, blah, blah, blah... and nobody will be hurt!"

Most of the people do as I say, which is smart. But one man jumps at me. He's not expecting the speed. I spin-kick him so hard that he smashes into a cigarette display.

"Trying to be a hero, huh? Do you know what _happens_ to heroes in this town?" I narrow my eyes, standing over him. Then I shoot out a kneecap with the machine gun, crippling him. God, I haven't pulled that since they put me in Arkham, "I _hate_ heroes. Now..." I grab a trolley, "You, counter guy. Take this trolley. Fill it with..." I look at the list I made on my way here, "Wake-aids, and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Food too. Cleaning stuff. Oh, and have you got any vodka? I think I'm gonna need it. For cocktails, you know? Oh, and just one little thing-" I look up at the clock on the wall, "My boss isn't the patient type, so for every five minutes I have to spend in this store, I'm going to shoot somebody. So it would be _extremely_ ill-advised to push any panic-buttons or call the cops and turn this into a stretched-out hostage situation, okay?"

The counter guy runs off with the trolley and I look around at the people lying terrified , and the guy I crippled. Yes, this is what I consider a professional hold-up. Some people used to hire me to make distractions, because what makes for a better distraction than a heavily armed humanoid cat? "Oh yeah, I almost forgot," I grin, "Like I said, hold-up. I'm going to want your cell-phones, wallets, jewellery and you," I point the gun at a guy who looks like he was reaching for a bottle of whiskey to attack me with, "Empty the cash register."

"Into... into what?" he whispers.

"Oh, a plastic bag will do. Just dump it in the trolley. Provided the guy from the counter gets back in time. Otherwise _she'll_ have to do it," I point the gun at a terrified woman, "I wish he'd hurry up. You know, I hate killing civilians. It's just... sloppy, you know? If you're good at this sort of thing, you should be able to pull it off without any unnecessary killing. And there's always _somebody-_" I kick the crippled man in the side hard enough to crack a rib, "Who'll try to make it difficult."

The guy from the counter returns just as the next 'hero' opens the register. He dumps all the money into a bag and puts it into the trolley.

"Nice, very nice," I smile at the clerk, "And all within five minutes. See how fast you can make these little shopping trips if you don't waste time?"

"Who the hell are you?" a young woman asks me, her voice a frightened whisper.

"Me? Oh, I'm just Breech Loader," I smile, patting the white fur on my head absently, "But my... boss... Now he's somebody you should _really_ worry about. And since he's a little... busy right now," I look around, taking the trolley, "I suppose I'd better leave a calling card."

I turn to the white wall, and rapid-fire into it, leaving my bullets in the shape of a grotesque smiley face. Finally, satisfied with my work, I turn back to the hostages – just as the 'hero' guy is jumping at me. So I shoot him too.

"Whaddaya know? Right on five minutes!" I exclaim, checking the clock on the wall. I look at the dead man, pick him up by the hair, and use the blood flowing out of his gut to smear red over the 'smile' carved by the gunshots on the wall. I bow to the hostages, "Heroes, huh? If that man had been sensible and stayed down with the rest of you, he'd still be alive. But no, he had to be a _hero_. And I hope this teaches you all a valuable lesson about what happens to heroes in Gotham City. Ladies and gentlemen, I am _not_ the Joker. But I hope that this experience will enrich your lives with the knowledge that he's out of Arkham, and he sent _me_ to get his coffee. You've been a wonderful audience, now, goodnight."

I wheel the trolley full of caffeine, wake-aids, canned food and vodka out of the grocery store.

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><p>"We're too late," I stare at the 'message' grimly.<p>

"It was so sudden. The witnesses say she walked in, bold as brass in a red leather outfit and duster, and demanded the guy at the till fetch coffee, wake-aids, cleaning fluids, food and vodka," Commissioner Gordon rubs his head, "She shot two men who tried to stop her, and killed one of them. Then she shot this 'message' into the wall."

"The Joker sent her out to fetch his coffee, and she didn't even try to get away," I muse slowly, "Then she left this 'calling card'. And I saw the tapes," he grimaced, "Look at the way she's moving her hands. Listen to the way she's speaking. He's turning this woman into him. I can't let him prove that he can destroy people like this."

"But chances are the Joker would have killed every person in this place," Gordon points out, "She injured one and killed another, but then she just walked out. The food and drink was all she wanted. We found the money and phones dumped halfway down the road-"

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><p>I wheel the trolley in through the side door, hang up my coat and the machine gun, and look around for the Joker. Because if nothing else, I want to know where he is.<p>

He's sitting at a table, leaning back with his shoes on it, and when I come in; when our eyes meet, for the first time he looks surprised, though it's hard to tell under the greasepaint and gruesome Chelsea smile, "Didn't I give you a gun and tell you to go get me some coffee?" he asks.

"Yeah," I kick the trolley over to him, "You could turn on the news."

Looking mildly interested, he turns on an old TV and switches to a channel that does 24 hour news. There's some regular stuff, and some interesting stuff, and so on... and then the woman stops, _"-And we have just had a news update – the Joker has recently escaped from Arkham Asylum. Warning; Some of the images in this report may be disturbing."_

"Disturbing, huh?" the Joker looks at me with a smile.

A woman, shaking, comes up on screen, _"This crazy cat-lady in red just... walked in with a gun! She shot a man, and told the guy working the cash register to get coffee and food and cleaning utensils... said her name was Breech Loader..."_

The guy I crippled looks up from a stretcher, _"I tried to take her down, but she kicked me aside and... shot out my leg... she said she hated heroes..."_

The cash register guy shows up, _"She said for every five minutes she spent in the store, she'd shoot somebody! She killed a guy who tried to stop her! Right on five minutes!"_

The woman I threatened with my gun shows up, _"She said she was there because the Joker wanted coffee! If his lackeys will do this for dumb things like coffee... imagine what he'll do! Look at that wall!" _She points at the newly decorated wall, with its bullet holes and blood.

Summer Gleeson appears on screen, trying to grab hold of Commissioner Gordon, _"Commissioner Gordon, surely you were aware that the Joker was loose. Why didn't you alert the people?"_

"_Because, Miss Gleeson, that is exactly the sort of thing he would want me to do."_

"_And what about this Breech Loader, this so-called 'Lady in Red'? Should the public be seriously concerned about her? Do you know who she is?"_

"_She's an anthromorphic cat who robs grocery stores,"_ the commissioner snorts, _"She won't be able to hide for long. My best men are already on this case. The Joker and Breech Loader will be found and brought to justice."_

The Joker nods slowly and turns to me, "So now..." he licks his scars, "Now everybody in Gotham knows I'm out of Arkham..." he hisses softly, and takes a step towards me, "All those stupid mob bosses and petty crooks will be jumping at shadows and saying, "Is the Joker going to blow up this bank? Or that hospital? And they're after you too, now."

"I, uh... I thought you'd like all the panic!" I manage to keep from backing away. Backing away won't do me any good; it'll just encourage him. Still, I can't help but lean away, as he looms over me. I try to tell whether he's angry or not, but I can't read people like he can...

"Hmmm..." Suddenly, he grabs my shoulders and starts shaking me so hard that my teeth are rattling, "Why'd you come back, huh?" he roars, "Why'd you come back?" He's shaking me so hard I can't even speak, "Are the pigs tracking you? You figured giving me to them would make you 'normal'? HUH?"

I have to wait until he stops shaking me before I can speak. He's gripping my shoulders so hard with his fingers that I just know there's gonna be bruises there under the fur in the morning. I almost want to cry, but crying... is such a bad move in front of the Joker, "You... you told me that if I wanted to do something, I should do it," I gasp out, "I wanted to come back here!"

"WHY?"

"I don't know!" I scream at him, and grit my teeth, "You think some loser pig could _make_ me do such a goddamn crazy thing? You really think that little of me?"

He looks furious, still gripping me tightly. In a matter of steps he slams me against a wall, and produces one of his many shivs, "What about... the Batman?" he growls, and his voice lightens slightly, "He won't kill you. But I will. And if you lie to me, I'll, uh... have to _kill_ you... _so_ slow..." the knife hovers around my abdomen.

Well this is another fine mess I've gotten myself into.

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><p>Me: You've read it, now review it. NOW NOW NOW. Come on! I can't make it better if you don't give me some constructive criticism, how can I ever make my writing better?<p> 


	7. Good Points

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: What? Hardly any new reviews at all? That sucks. YOU suck. Jerks... By which I mean, of course, that this is an important chapter – it involves a lot of peering into why Breech Loader continues to interest The Joker.<p>

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><p>Chapter Seven: Good Points<p>

I don't get it. She had a gun and the run of the city. So why did she come back here? I don't understand, and that... well, it pisses me off, and that's a fact.

"If you lie to me, I will kill you," I warn her, stroking the shiv against her belly.

I could, too. I could watch her go down, screaming.

"So, uh... _tell_ me the truth. Did the Bat make you come back?"

"If the Batman had been there when I shot up that store... do you really think he would have let me waste the place like that?" she asks me, "I think you'd _notice_ if I'd run into the Bat."

I look her over slowly. I like chaos, and dynamite, but she makes good points. Which is strange, because good points don't usually make an asswad of difference, "I don't think I believe you," I tell her, pulling back the knife to stab.

"I JUST CAME BACK OKAY!" she screams, her feline eyes staring desperately and truthfully into mine, close to panic, but there's honest anger as well.

I stop. I really can't stand it when people start panicking. It brings on one of my headaches, and I have to kill somebody to make it stop. But the anger there... it's enough to make me hold back, at least for the moment...

"I just came back..." she manages, breathing hard, "I don't know why..." She looks at me again, "Now... do you want me to make you some coffee, or not?" she gives me a weak smile.

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><p>I'm still alive. Still.<p>

Would he have done it? If he hadn't believed me, I mean. I don't know, I really don't. He cocks his head at me thoughtfully as I mention the coffee, like an animal, and nods, "Make it black, and strong," he orders me. I don't like orders but then, I don't like taking a knife to the gut either. I make it twice as strong as even I usually have it, then make my own separately, "Now," he starts drinking, "Whatever am I going to, uh... _do_ with you?"

His coffee must be burningly hot and unbearably bitter but he's drinking it like it's lemonade. I shrug, "I'm sure there's something," I reply, blowing on my coffee before I drink.

"Hmmm..." He looks at me. I hate that look. It means he's coming up with something inventive and inventive is not good, not with the Joker, "I think I know how we can have some, uh, _fun_ today... Suit up, Breech, we're going to crash a little party."

"Why am I going?" I ask.

"Because it wouldn't be a, uh... _party_ without you," he grins, "Point is, people usually don't come back. Not if they have a choice. Things have been... well, entertaining, with you here. Now, _suit up,_" he growls.

I shrug again, and throw on the longcoat, pulling a hood up to cover the face.

"AH!" he stops me, and rips off the hood, "Tsk, tsk. Never hide that pretty face of yours, Breech. _Never_ hide what you really are."

Five minutes later, and we're in a car. Stolen, of course. The cop car is still waiting to be picked up. I learnt a long time ago that it's easy to hotwire an engine so the moment you turn the ignition... boom. He's got all his shivs and some explosives. I've got the rapid-fire and a shotgun. Since he saw the news report where I made my little mark, he knows I can make it fun with a gun. So I get to keep using them.

"You make everybody so _afraid_ of you," I remark as he drives erratically. He glances at me, but doesn't answer. It's true, "But you just make me think, could I kill you?"

"Really?" he smirks nastily, "Do you really think you could?"

"Well..." I give it some thought, "If I'd jumped you before I'd started talking, and fired into your head, yes. But now... that's exactly what you're expecting. And now you'll always expect it. No, I couldn't kill you."

"Smart girl," he grins and licks his lips slowly.

"There is good and bad in the world, you know," I tell him after a few minutes, "It's just that it's all... a matter of perspective," I stare ahead at nothing, "That's why I wound up in Arkham. Because right and wrong is all a matter of perspective. Doctor Crane knows it too. And so do you. But then there's the doctors... they don't know, and I'd almost forgotten too..."

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><p>She sounds almost... happy. Happy that she's remembering what it's like to be crazy. Of course I don't agree with her. Right and wrong isn't about perspective. There's <em>no such thing<em> as right or wrong. But still, if you do the right things with that kind of attitude, Arkham is where you end up. She keeps talking.

"If I slit a rapist's throat would that be wrong?" she asks herself, "Well to him, obviously. But to his victims? They'd give me a pat on the back and a ten dollar bill. And there are so many people out there who would say he deserved it. After I killed a man!" she laughed bitterly, "People who would otherwise be considered charitable, loving citizens by the majority of society would say he deserved it. Such... hypocrisy."

What she's saying doesn't faze me at all. What comes next actually manages to surprise me.

"People are all people. Even when they're people like you and me."

I raise my eyebrows, "So... you think I'm just like everybody else, Breech?"

"You did hear what I said about perspective, Joker?" she smiles, "You expect me to think you're a freak and a monster like everybody else does? Me?" she gestures to her kitty face, "I am not even _human_ now, Joker. Do you have any _idea_ how many people have thought of me as a monster?" she hesitates, "Oh, I saw the news. I thought you were a monster then. Blowing up two shiploads of people as a _social experiment?_ Do you know what I would have done?" And suddenly her eyes narrow and she's looking at me.

"Tell me."

"I would have _told_ them exactly the same things you told them – that somebody has to blow up the other boat, or both boats die. But that would be a lie... because they _would_ have the detonator to their own boat, and the persons, the _murderers_ who pressed the detonator, in the hope of prolonging their own pathetic lives for a few more minutes by killing about 500 people, with the petty hope that I wouldn't kill them anyway for what they just did, would go _straight to hell."_

I hit the brakes. Another car shunts into the back of us, and I hear a man swearing at us before driving by. But I look at her. I grab her by those round cheeks and look at her. She looks at me determinedly. I haven't met anybody this honest. Manipulating her isn't a challenge, because she tells me everything she thinks.

I've met people who try to be honest. And even people who _are_ honest. But they were never this much _fun_.

"I know why they couldn't cure you at Arkham," she says, looking both at and past me at once, "They treated you just like everybody else. They tried to control the conversation, didn't they? All they had to do," she looks thoughtful, "Was switch off and let their mouth do the talking. You wanted to control the conversation. They should have let you. That's what I would have done..."

"If you're so... savvy on these doctors, Breech," I ask, licking my lips, "How come they made so much _progress_ with you?"

"I like to talk about myself," she admits without the slightest hint of emotion. She says it like it's a fact – just another thing she's telling me about herself, "And I'm a terrible liar. And of course... I did have a few tips from Doctor Crane."

"Heh, yes, I heard about that..."

It's all stated, logical facts. Not the slightest hint of superiority, or an attempt at making herself look big. The only problem the world has with her is that she's a killer and a freak. Like me.

Thank god I helped her get out before they finished unravelling her psyche.

"The trick is in learning to roll with the punches," she finishes. And then she stares into the distance, and I know, I just know she's having a deep and meaningful and logical conversation in her head.

* * *

><p>According to the 'good' doctor, Hugo Strange, I have an IQ of 147. They told me that's higher than most of the population of the country. I managed to weasel it out of an orderly once, that Johnny has an IQ of 152. The Joker apparently has an IQ of 198.<p>

I know what the Joker does to people. Look at what he's done to me.

What? You thought I was blind? I used to kill people for money. It was my _job_. Oh, there was the money, I won't deny. But the money was incidental, and the fact that I killed people was incidental. The important thing was that it was my _job, _and it was, let's just say it was a big part of my life. And then it was taken away from me. And then _they_ put me in Arkham Asylum to rot. Not because of the money and the killing. But because I was so dedicated to my _job_.

What, would it make me any more sane if the lives were more important than the money? If the lives were more important than the job? They obviously thought it would do.

A guy beats his wife to death with a golf trophy and that's sane. I put a price on a man's life. A very high price. And I do my job quickly and cleanly, and I fulfil my contracts to the letter. To the goddamn _letter!_ And they call me the crazy, sick one?

I remember something, "I heard you set fire to a fortune," I say simply.

"Only my half."

"That's my point," I tell him, "Your half of the money. I mean, what value is money, anyway? Those little pieces of paper are only worth anything because _they_ say so. I walk into a grocery store, shoot it up and get your coffee, which is what I went there for, so what use is their money? Why bother taking that too? It would be pointless."

"You, uh... _kill_ for money," the Joker points out.

"Yes, I do. I kill for a great deal of money," I shrug, "It's almost funny. Kill a stranger in the street for ten bucks, and you're a murderer. Kill some rich mob guy for 10 million bucks, and you're a businessman. You know what else is funny? To see just how much you can get away with charging to kill people for other people while they try and keep their own hands clean. And it's always gratifying to see the look in their eyes when you take the money off them when the job's done... like they think they haven't done anything wrong just because it was you who fired the gun... or sometimes they just don't care... it's fun. You can learn a lot about people by killing other people for them."

He's still staring intently at me, while I look over his shoulder absently. But when, after a full minute of study, he still doesn't let go, I start to feel uncomfortable, "What do you want?" I ask him uneasily. The direct approach is always so much easier, for me.

"You are, uh... a _very_ interesting person," the Joker replies, running his tongue over his lower lip, "You know, I've never met anybody quite like you, Breech. You're not me, of course..."

_Thank heavens for small mercies..._

"...But you're not quite as, uh... _deluded_ as most of the idiots in this world."

"Thankyou," I tell him bluntly, "Oh, and for the record, Joker? Blowing up almost 800 people on a whim? That's wrong. But-" I hold a hand up just before he starts to squeeze my neck, "Give it 10, 20, 50 years... and people may well see things rather differently."

"And, uh... _why_ should I give it any time at all?"

I smile. He's just brought up my favourite subject. Well, one of them. The one I used to really make Doctor Strange squirm, "The universe is approximately 13.75 billion years old. What's 50 years to that? In fact, what's anything at all that exists or has ever existed on this planet compared to that? And there are, at this moment, approximately 7 billion people on this planet. What's one person matter among all those people? Or even 100,000? But I will admit, you _can_ matter. You just have to _earn_ the right to do so."

The Joker lets go of my face, and smiles eerily, "How right you are, Breech."

* * *

><p>Me: Breech is crazy. And honest. She still doesn't think she's crazy though... well, not especially crazy... well, the world's kind of crazy anyway, so to survive in it you need to be a giant cat – I mean, a little bit crazy. She's only a little bit crazy... at least she thinks so.<p> 


	8. Potholes

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: This chapter is longer than usual but it fills in a lot of Breech's psyche – as well as some of her past. Not all of it. I don't know why more people aren't reviewing. Curse you! Oh yeah, this chapter is from Bruce Wayne's POV.<p>

And I'm always glad to be inspiring.

* * *

><p>Chapter Eight: Potholes<p>

"Studying for a date, Master Bruce?"

I look up. I didn't realised how much time I'd spent studying the files of Bridget Loranski, aka Breech Loader, "Just brushing up on my psychopaths, Alfred," I tell my butler.

I've already studied the profiles of the Joker and Jonathan Crane, aka the Scarecrow, until I've almost memorised them by heart. Crane was a simple enough man to grasp – he was a complete egomaniac who thought that fear was the only emotion worth understanding. Clearly not fit for society but also a logical man. Joker's harder – the man is clearly sociopathic and highly intelligent, but with a cold, dark and _cruel_ kind of sanity that doesn't bear understanding; he's more like a mad dog than anything else. Both men have something in common though – they both treat other humans as something to study, more than interact with.

Bridget Loranski is different to both of those men. For somebody who kills for money she seems to have a desperate need to care for and be cared for by others. That's probably how she came to endure a relationship with Crane. The man was a skilled psychiatrist, and technically still is – he was doubtless ecstatic to learn that he was making more progress with her than any of the still legally qualified doctors.

Nothing seems to really faze her. The incident with the Joker in the cafeteria was fascinating – she was obviously terrified, but once it was over, she brushed it off like it had never happened. And in the infirmary too – she was frightened of him, but it didn't last. Therapy sessions came, and then she passed them out of her mind. It was as if her confinement to the Asylum was something irrelevant.

"I want to understand this woman," I add, "If I can understand her, I can find her. There's a lot of holes in her past. Nobody knows how she got this way. Look. This is her when she was 18..." the image of a pretty girl, with light brunette hair comes up on the screen, "She'd just graduated from university with top scores in Biology and Genetics. She left the country and vanished from the world for seven years, and this is her at 25." A mugshot of Breech Loader, the anthromorphic cat, comes up.

"Quite the change, if I may say, Master Bruce."

"When the mugshot was taken, she'd just murdered 28 people – including a mob boss. She would have escaped but that amazingly one of the gangsters managed to get in a lucky shot in her leg before he was killed. The GCPD didn't know what to do with her."

"One would think the FBI would get involved with a case like her."

"That's just the thing. She demanded her phone call. Somehow she got it - it's not detailed how, but this is the old, corrupt Gotham, and there's always the hostage factor to take into account. This is the call she made."

* * *

><p>A low, throaty purr that was Breech's voice spoke, "I can't say much now. The job's been done. But it's gone wrong; I got caught by the GCPD."<p>

A woman spoke on the other end,_ "Then get un-caught."_

"Some mobster got in a lucky shot..." Breech's voice again, "And it's worse than that. The FBI is on its way. You have to tell your boss. He has to make them get me a human trial. For humans. Because I used to be human. Don't make me beg."

"_He could get you out."_

"No, this is how it's got to be. Prison I can deal with. The FBI? This is about Client Confidentiality. All of them. Tell him; he'll know what has to be done."

"_...I'll do what I can."_

* * *

><p>"That's the call she made," I stop the tape, "The FBI suddenly decided that Bridget Loranski was still legally human and no concern of theirs and unloaded her onto the GCPD. Whoever she was doing that last job for must have paid off, or more likely, blackmailed somebody <em>very<em> high up. Doctors declared her legally insane by human standards and therefore unfit to stand trial."

"Injustice indeed that she ended up in Arkham, Master Bruce."

"Not quite. Nobody was _paid_ to find her legally insane, because technically she _was_. I don't think she was quite expecting that herself. The truly insane do have a tendency to believe they're the only sane people in the world. But that's why she was put in Arkham Asylum, and once again she vanished from the world. A month later, things start to come together though, when she had a visitor. This was recorded about a month before Batman came to this city."

I put a video tape in.

* * *

><p>A tall, attractive woman with her long blonde hair in a plait walked into a room with a desk and Breech and a guard. She was wearing a very smart black suit, "Bridget."<p>

"Mercy," The handcuffed, feline Breech looked up, "Nice suit."

"Can't say the same for yours. Why did you want to talk to me? Are we being watched?"

"Mostly by him," Breech pointed at the guard, "And there are always cameras. Don't worry about them though, we know how to talk, don't we? I just need to talk with you without some... ape hanging over my shoulder..." she glared up at the guard, who looked as if he wanted to hit her.

"Why do you want to talk to me?"

"Because right now, you're the only person who will believe me."

Mercy looked up at the guard, "I need to talk with this woman privately. Leave us."

The guard hesitated, "Are you sure, ma'am? That freak is _dangerous_."

"Quite sure. Leave us now." The guard left, "Okay Bridget... what's this about?"

"Three things. First, I need to know, does your employer trust me? I mean, my Client Confidentiality? I don't want to be looking over my shoulder watching out for some sniper all the time."

Mercy nodded, "If he didn't trust you, you'd be dead already. But as far as he's concerned, you're now no more dangerous to him than any of the crazy freaks in here. After all, you chose... this place... over shooting your mouth off to the FBI for your freedom, and you haven't blabbed yet."

"Good. Anyway, who'd listen to a 'crazy freak'? I just want him to do what everybody else in the world has done. I want him to forget I exist."

"Already done."

"Good. Second thing? I want _you_ to have this," Breech slid a disc across the table, "They're my overseas accounts, stocks and bonds, the oil rig in Libya and that little island in the Caribbean that I own. Take them. They're all yours, legally, no fuss, no killing, no cover-ups needed. Everything."

"But Bridget..." the blonde woman looked uncertain for the first time since she'd entered the room, "_Everything?_ You're serious?"

"If this," Breech pointed at her face, "has taught me anything, it's that money is nothing more than little pieces of paper with pictures. Take the disc and do as you please with it. Buy a small country. Or millions of shoes. Donate it to some children's fund. Build a wildlife reserve. Use it as a Frisbee. Hell, you can _burn_ it, as far as I'm concerned. I'm done with it. I only want one thing in return."

"What?"

"Don't visit. Don't call. Don't write. Don't try to get me out. No matter what I say. Even if I _beg_ you. To you I'm a freak, a disgrace, a shame on the family. I'm Breech Loader. I'm insane."

Mercy sighed, "You could be in here a long time... Breech. It won't be easy. And when you come out, you'll be a different person altogether."

"I intend to be," Breech sighed, looking down at the table, "To tell you the truth, Mercy, I'm _tired_. I know it's not going to be easy, but it's going to be temporary. Like all things. Maybe I'll leave through the front doors, or maybe I'll climb over the fence, but right now, this is where I _want_ to be."

Mercy finally nodded, "If that's what you really want, Breech. But if I use this disc, when you get out you'll have nothing. Not even me."

"I know. I'll have to get a _job_," Breech smirked, "Consider this... a state of hibernation. Or perhaps a caterpillar, turning into a chrysalis, then a beautiful butterfly!" she snickered.

"If you're sure you can take the heat," Mercy nodded again. She took the disc.

"Thanks," Breech continued, "Third... Mercy, I've got one of my feelings. Something's going to happen. Something that will change _everything._"

"Nothing can change this city. Gotham is rotten to the core."

"So was Metropolis, once," there was a pregnant pause, "I know your boss has connections in this city. It makes no difference to me from in here, but you and your boss would find it in your best interests to sever any... less scrupulous connections here. Everything's going to change, _forever._"

"How?"

"I don't know," Breech said regretfully. She held up her hands, and made a simple shadow picture on the wall. To Bruce it looked rather like... a bat, "Mercy, have I ever been wrong before?"

"Well there was that one time..."

"I mean about _important_ things?" Mercy shook her head slowly, as Breech continued, "Something's coming. Something big."

"I'll tell him that," Mercy stood up, "I'll miss you... Breech."

Breech stood up too, "And I'll miss you, Mercy." The two women hugged each other tightly, before Breech sat down again, "Still, if your boss ever needs my services... you know where to find me..." she began to laugh madly, "You know... where to find me! Oh, that's rich!" She slammed her fist on the table a couple of times.

Mercy shook her head, as Breech laughed wildly, and the orderlies entered, dragging her out of the room as she laughed all the way down the hall, barely even resisting.

* * *

><p>"Very interesting," Alfred remarks, "And a little worrying too, perhaps. But what does it have to do with the current situation?"<p>

"First, that Breech Loader _was_ insane when she entered Arkham Asylum. Joker's just made her fall further. And I did a run on 'Mercy'," I say simply, "Her name is Mercy Graves. She's Lex Luthor's Personal Assistant and bodyguard. And she's Bridget Loranski's _cousin_. These tapes are worthless in a court of law thanks to Lex Luthor's money, power and veritable army of lawyers, but we know now, even though we can't prove it, that Breech Loader has worked for him. I'm sending these tapes to Clark."

"Very wise, Master Bruce."

"And it gives insight into just how smart she is," I add and put in the next tape, "As do her early interactions with Scarecrow..."

* * *

><p>"Aren't you afraid?"<p>

The handcuffed Breech tilted her head and thought, "You of all people should know fear makes us totally irrational. But the things that make us afraid are only temporary. Why should I be afraid of that which is temporary? The only thing that is not temporary is death. That's the only thing that lasts forever; that really makes a mark."

"So... you're afraid of death?"

This brought about another pause, "In terms of survival of the individual, yes. But if I die – or perhaps more accurately, _when_ I die – that will be the end. It's just something I have to face and fight."

"Hah. So if death is the end, does that mean you don't believe in a god?"

"God is temporary too."

"But the very nature of gods-"

"4000 years ago, the Egyptians believed in gods like Anubis, Horus, and Bastet. Does anybody believe in those gods now?" There was a pause as Crane analysed her responses – her honest, open, and enlightening responses, "What scares _you_, Doctor Crane?" she asked suddenly, and the man's head snapped up.

Obviously as a man who studied fear, people had often asked him what he was afraid of. But when Breech asked it, it sounded much... deeper. More respectful. And somehow more than just a passing curiosity – it sounded like she really gave a damn.

"I mean, Doctor Crane, what is it that strikes you as being so... permanent... that you fear it?"

"I fear nothing." But the comment had obviously aroused his interest.

"I don't think that's true, Doctor. You really _believe_ in fear. It's only logical that you've experienced it. And if you haven't, I don't see how you can possibly call yourself an expert on it."

He tried to maintain control of the conversation, "You must be afraid of _something_. Everybody is. Are you afraid of something in your past, perhaps?"

"The past is the past. It's over. Why waste time being _afraid_ of what you can't change?"

"What about the future? The dark tunnel of the unknown future?"

"Oh, I know what the future holds." Breech smiled.

"What?"

"Death," she stated, "Maybe you'll die tomorrow, if an orderly gets overenthusiastic on your ass. Maybe you'll get out, and die at 90 in a warm bed surrounded by loved ones. But it will come. Because life is only a temporary state of affairs. Making all things in life temporary. And why be afraid of what is only temporary? Oh, fear is a necessary survival protocol..." Loranski looked around, before she returned her attention to Crane, "But essentially, it's something that can be overcome so _easily_."

"And how do _you_ overcome fear?" Crane smirked.

Breech thought about her answer again, "I take it as it comes; a temporary chemical imbalance in the brain. Or you could say..." she smirked, "I roll with the punches."

"What about me?" Crane's voice lowered to the tone he had used as Scarecrow.

"Temporary," she answered blankly, staring aside.

"I assure you, _Loranski_, the fear I could deal you, however temporary, would certainly _feel_ like it was lasting forever-"

* * *

><p>And she had suddenly spun around and punched the slight man straight in the face, splitting his lip.<p>

As the orderlies had pulled her off him and dragged her away for a day and a night in solitary, she had been screaming, constantly, "It's all temporary, _Doctor_ Crane! All of it! Everything ends! Face facts!" That had gotten _everybody's _attention.

The attack _was_ sudden and vicious, but I notice that, while the feline woman _could_ have lashed out with claws that would have permanently shredded Crane's face, she had very specifically curled her hand into a fist that only split his lip.

I put in the next tape, from a couple of days later.

* * *

><p>Breech sat down next to Crane. He looked surprised – he probably expected her to avoid him after yesterday's incident. But she just sat down. And then she smiled lazily.<p>

"So... how's your lip, Doctor Crane?" she asked conversationally, her voice sounding perfectly sincere as she studied the bruise she'd left, "Does it hurt?"

"It's fine, Ms Loader."

"You see?" she smiled, "Even pain is temporary. My little stint in solitary... temporary. It's all going to end. Even if I spend the rest of my life in this... hole... it will end when I die. And death is the final end."

Crane leant forward, "I will find out what scares you, Breech Loader. Even if I have to whip up a batch of fear toxins right in this Asylum. I will pick your brain apart and find out everything about you."

Breech looked at him, then smiled lazily, "Doctor Crane, you talk as if I would try to hide it from you."

* * *

><p>There are many more tapes of their interactions – enough to show Bridget Loranski was spending almost all of her free time with Crane - and I soon notice that with Crane, not only did she tell him everything about her warped beliefs, she told him about many times she had been afraid, even if it was only a temporary thing, and most of all, she told him <em>everything<em> that happened in her therapy sessions.

The egomaniacal Crane loved diagnosing his new 'patient'. Her freakish appearance doesn't seem to bother him much; Crane was obviously more interested in her genius-level IQ which was at the same time satisfyingly lower than his own.

And I realise that not only am I watching a deeply intimate friendship growing, I am also watching a Master/Pupil relationship. Crane was teaching Breech Loader everything he knew about psychiatry. All the little 'tips and tricks' as he called them, all the ways the doctors would try to change her. Of course the woman was intelligent enough to know damn well that the doctors didn't give a shit about her, and were only doing their jobs, but he'd tutored her on the more subtle methods that the doctors used, that an obsessive, impulsive psychopath like Breech would miss.

It's clear that Crane liked Breech just the way she was. He accepted the unacceptable – something Breech simply didn't experience. In just the same way as she didn't seem to care about his insane attempts to poison the city or even how he tested his fear toxins on his patients. That was in the past.

I slide in a therapy tape.

* * *

><p>"So, Ms Loranski, do you mind telling me why you were engaging in those... sexual encounters with Jonathan Crane?" Doctor Hugo Strange asked her.<p>

The anthro-feline looked tired and thin. Clearly she had gone on her hunger, water and sleep strike already, "You want to know why? Because I'll only tell you once."

"Then tell me."

"I trust him."

"You _trust_ Jonathan Crane? You _are_ aware of why he is in this institution, aren't you?" the doctor sounded surprised, but Breech just nodded, "Did he... manipulate you in any way? Force you? Threaten you? Scare you? Crane is very good at inducing fear in people, sometimes without them even knowing it."

Breech looked as if she was considering a clever, insulting answer for a moment. Finally she sighed and leant forward, arms crossed, her voice low and soft, "What I did with Doctor Crane, I did of my own free will."

"Crane isn't behaving this way over _you_."

"I know."

Strange hesitated, as if he'd expected her to _want_ Crane to be damaging himself because of her absence, "How do you know? You haven't seen him in several days."

"I know because I know he wouldn't do something like that," and then Breech _shone,_ "Does it worry you, Doc? That I'm closer to a... psychopath... than I am to my therapist? Does it concern you that a madman knows more about your patient than you do? Or perhaps it's just that Doctor Crane once ran this joint; he's a genius. And just _look_ where he is now! Do you finally realise, Doctor, that the day you understand me, you'll be on _my_ side of the desk?" she giggled.

"Um..." Doctor Strange stumbled over his words for a long moment, before he continued, "If you do care for each other, don't you think this would upset him?"

She tilted her head, "Doctor Strange, is there something _wrong_ with myself and Doctor Crane indulging in a relationship in which we are mutually caring for each other despite our... social failings? I thought our mutual... intimacy... would be a good sign. A sign that we are both _making progress._"

"Well, uh, it's not that there's anything wrong with it, but ethically-"

"Oh, so we're going to talk about this _ethically_ now? Well, _ethically_, Doc, is there something wrong with the way I'm indulging in all this self-destructive behaviour because I'm not being allowed to spend time with somebody I care for deeply?"

"Well obviously it's wrong that you're hurting yourself-"

"Well then, Doctor," Breech smiled in a friendly sort of way and leant forward, her cuffed hands gently placed flat on the table, but her claws extended, "Shouldn't you let me do the _right_ thing?"

* * *

><p>Within the week, both had their privileges back. Breech Loader wasn't fazed in the slightest by the week of self-abuse. Crane was clearly proud of the way she had manipulated her doctor into returning their privileges. I look at one of the things she mentioned in the later tapes.<p>

"_The problem with people is that they think too much. They make clever plans, when they'd win so much faster with a simple one."_

Ah... that was it...

She makes no plan, but she has a goal. All her murders document that pattern. She doesn't play chess to get to her destination. She drives a _bulldozer_.

So many people had treated her like a freak; an animal. So inevitably, in a way she had come to believe them. What makes her more dangerous still is how people underestimate that she is very, very intelligent despite that. Crane and the Joker were two of very few people who had dared approach such a freak. And as far as I can see, they didn't _manipulate_ her. They _taught_ her.

And it is frightening to think what she might have learned from _them._

* * *

><p>Me: Well, I went to all the trouble of writing this, so how about a review? I'm a writer on Adult Fan Fiction too, so why not check me up under the Author name Harley Quinn hyenaholic sometime? And review, dammit! I know I've got readers!<p>

Also, Mercy Graves is mainly canon to the Superman comics.


	9. Social Experiment

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Breech: Yeah, I'm still writing. Three points of view in one chapter. That's not exceptional. We're really getting into people's heads here. The important thing is that you're getting to see how Breech is getting to think.<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Nine: Social Experiment<p>

I don't usually take much interest in women.

Well, no more so than men, anyway.

And get your minds out of the gutter. You know I'm talking about the dynamite factor here.

The only women who get my attention, are the _interesting_ ones. Like that... uh... Rachel Dawes, that was her name. For a moment I almost would have let her live. She saw me holding a knife to that stupid old man's neck, and when not a single other person in that room full of men and women who claimed they were good people would step forward and tell me to let him go, she did.

It's the sign of either an idiot, or a good person.

It's always interesting to find out which one they are. That's where the shiv comes in handy. It's useful for testing people.

Breech here is also interesting. And here I thought she'd be _easy_ to manipulate. She takes things at face value. She listens to everything she's told. But then some little comment I make that would make just about anybody wriggle like a worm on a hook... that sort of thing, she just looks at me and... takes it.

In Arkham, I heard she was high risk, and I wondered what might set her off. None of the usual things, it seemed. In fact she seemed so dull at first, that I wondered why they considered her high-risk at all. All the time she was fucking Scarecrow, the security tapes were handed around Arkham like something out of a porno flick. So I brought it up in one of my taped sessions. Then they _had_ to do something. I was just wondering if Crane was her lever.

If only it was that simple, huh?

She didn't throw tantrums or cause fights or break down like regular, dull people might. What she did was _take action_. They were force-feeding her by the end of the week, and then they gave up and she and Scarecrow _won_. They barely needed to hide it after that. The shrinks of course, claimed it was better for both of the patients that way, what with it being consensual. That it _helped_ them.

That made me laugh, considering what I know about Scarecrow just from the news. They couldn't bear to admit they'd lost, that they made up the biggest lie of all just to save their skins... and they were condemned for it.

"This is a mob hideout."

I look at her. She's looking at where the car came to a stop, "You're not, uh... _afraid_, are you?" I chuckle.

She tilts her head, in that delightful way that means she's going to tell the truth, "No. I'm just curious as to what you intend to do while you're in there. After all, those men in there must know your face now. They'll kill you on sight, if only to stop you killing them first."

"I have a little idea, Breech. That's all. You've been very, uh... honest with me so far. But now I want to stop playing games. I want to give _you_ a chance to show _me_ the real _you_. You said you, uh... wanted to make your _mark_ in Gotham. Here's where you start."

She cocks her head again, "There really is nothing you're afraid of, isn't there?" she says finally.

I laugh at the very idea of it for some time.

She shrugs and produces her gun, "Then this is your experiment, Joker. I just hope the results... satisfy you. Whatever they may be."

"Just, uh... act _natural_, Breech," I smirk, "I don't want to uh... cloud the _results_ of this little experiment."

* * *

><p>"What the-"<p>

The mobsters are instantly reaching for guns as we walk into the room. Trouble is I've already got mine in hand. The shotgun. It's already loaded and pumped and all I have to do is fire a hole through a guy's chest. Joker grins and holds up something that definitely looks like a small grenade.

"Tsk, tsk, gentlemen. Let's not _blow_ this out of proportion."

"I know you," one of the men stammers after a few seconds, "You're that guy who practically ran the city a few months back. You're the Joker!"

"Ran the city? _Ran_ the city?" Joker puts a look of shock on his face, and sucks on his scars, "All I did was kill a few people and blow up a couple of buildings. I never _ran_ the _city_. I never made anybody do anything they didn't have in them to do already."

The mobsters look terrified. There's about a dozen of them, with guns, and two of us. All I did was blow a hole through some guy. It seems they don't know whether to be more afraid of the feline freak with the shotgun or the clown with the grenade. They seem to be settling for Joker.

"Wh-what do you want?"

"Ah, the direct approach. I like that. See, I've got Breech Loader here. Fresh outta Arkham. Like me! But there's, uh... a problem with her. See, my lady in red can't exactly run down to the shops and get me some coffee without being, uh... _noticed._"

They look at me again, and now their faces are registering looks of disbelief, as if it's impossible for me to exist. They look away, trying to ignore it, but they can't. I've only met two people in this world so far who honestly didn't think about it as being a problem for me. Three if you count the Joker.

"This means I need some, uh... new, _human_ mooks. Reliable, honest, hardworking... capable of killing a guy without blinking. Kinda like Breech here!" he grins, "So, I'll give it to you straight gentlemen. The man who kills her takes her place."

"Kill her? Why?" asks somebody. I give Joker a venomous glare.

The Joker examines a glove with boredom, and pulls out one of his many, many shivs. Then, with a quick flick of his wrist, he throws it into the guy's throat, "The thing is, it's only the guy who _kills_ her, who gets to take her place," he says calmly as the guy falls gurgling to the floor, "The rest of you? You're going to be expendable after that. I'm a man of my _word_."

They all shudder at those words.

"I'm not killing some harmless little freak just for you to get a kick out of watching a murder," some big guy states. But he's looking at the two dead bodies while he's saying it. The Joker is pulling out another shiv. And they're all turning to look at me.

And I start laughing. I can't help it. I hardly even know why I'm laughing. I look up at them, turning to look at each other now, as if trying to decide which one of them gets the _privilege_ of killing me and living.

"Tell you what, boys," I look up eventually at the men, because the Joker is starting to look at me just a little bit too expectantly, "I'll make it _easy_ for you to decide."

And I fire the shotgun again, this time aiming at a guy's kneecap. The blast causes him to lose half his leg. Finally those remaining men realise what's good for them and pull their weapons; guns and shivs – and move in on me.

It's remarkably easy to kill them. I've dropped the shotgun, lacking reload time, but I've still got the rapid-fire fully loaded. And besides, a bunch of the guys at the back are killing the ones at the front to try and get at me.

Not _one_ of them thinks of going for the Joker, or running for the door.

I think I shoot down five, and rip up two with my claws, and wound a bunch of them. The rest of them are too busy killing each other to get to me. The last guy actually standing, I finish off by performing a spin-kick so hard, he's smashed through the window, and falls three stories. I wonder if he survived. It's not important.

I'm so high on adrenaline, that it's not until some time afterwards that I realise a bullet made a hole through one ear.

One of them is wounded – badly, but that's irrelevant. He'll do nicely.

He looks up at me, terrified, "You're crazy..." he gasps, "You're some sort of crazy freak monster..."

"Me, the monster?" I ask him, reloading the shotgun and putting a foot on his chest, "Thirty seconds ago you shot your buddy... Bob, let's call him Bob shall we? You shot Bob in the back for the sole purpose of getting to kill me on the offchance that the Joker would keep to his word and let you live. And _you_ are calling _me_ the monster?"

He looks away.

"_Don't look away from me,"_ I growl, and he looks back hastily. I continue, "Oh, it's nothing to be ashamed of... Steve. Is Steve your name? It's not important; it won't be for much longer. Your behaviour... is practically normal. The majority of people would do it."

He's starting to cry, "Don't kill me, don't kill me..." Other injured men are whimpering as they listen to me speaking. As for me, I'm saying this for the Joker's benefit as much as theirs.

"Now my, aha... friend, the Joker... he doesn't believe in right and wrong, good and evil," I stand up and move to another man who's still alive, "As far as I can tell, he just thinks everybody's a bad person. Can you blame him? With guys like you to serve as examples? But me, I think that there _are_ good people and bad people. It just so happens, that the bad people vastly outnumber the good people. That means they're the ones in control. They decide what should be right and wrong, and because they're bad people, they decide that whatever they do, it's not wrong and it's not cowardly. Like your bosses. Well..." I move on to the next guy, "I'm going to separate the good people from the bad people. And then I'm going to separate the heroes from the cowards. And then I'm going to clean up this city. I'm going to find a way to _make_ it clean, even if I have to _burn_ it to the _ground_. And when I'm done, do you know what the very _last_ thing I'm going to do is? I'm going to look in the mirror, and I'm going to clean up _myself_."

I step back, "Everything is temporary, gentlemen. Everything comes to an end. The very definitions of good and bad change. Even gods don't last forever. There is no constant, there is only one thing in this universe that is absolutely inevitable. And that is death. But death is nothing to fear, gentlemen!" I tell them cheerfully, "Death is one of the best cards you can be dealt! It just means that one thing is coming to an end. This, gentlemen, is only the _beginning."_

The Joker giggles behind me, "Very good, Breech. Very good. You really, uh... lived up to my _expectations_. Now... finish the job."

"It's not that I'm squeamish," I say quickly, "But honestly, if I kill everybody in this room, how will they ever be able to instil some decent fear of me into this city?"

"Easy," he sucks on his scars and holds up a small camera, pointing it at himself, "This insight on the illusion of human decency was brought to you by Joker-vision. As an agent of chaos, I'm just going to continue blowing shit up soon enough. But Breech here... she's going to be doing exactly what our good friend the Batman does – she's going to be killing people in the name of justice. Breech, choose your calling card," he offers me a selection of Face cards from a deck. I can't help but notice the Queen of Hearts is on top.

"No thanks," I smirk, "I brought my _own_ deck." I hold up a pack of Tarot cards I bagged at the grocery store the other night.

"And, um... which _is_ your card?" the Joker smirks, "Judgement? The Hanged Man? _Death?_" his eyes sparkle dangerously and he smirks again, "The Lovers?"

_Tread carefully, Breech. Tread very carefully,_ "I find it's best to play with a full deck," I reply. And so, I flick the cards, scattering them across the room, "Now, if you would?" I ask, gesturing for the camera to face me again. He obliges, "Listen up, Gotham City. My name is Breech Loader. And I hear you want a hero. You want one so badly, you don't care that he is a liar and a murderer. Well, you'll have your heroes, soon enough. Death... is only a new beginning."

And I set about 'finishing the job'.

* * *

><p>"That's where the tape ends, Batman," Commissioner Gordon grimaces, "Loranski shot all the remaining men and then left laughing. With the Joker. He dropped off the tape outside a news station. Those murders didn't faze Loranski in the slightest."<p>

"They wouldn't," I reply grimly, "She doesn't fully grasp the normal rules of right and wrong any more. If she ever did."

"What does she want?" Gordon asks, "Me? You? Money and power?"

"That's the point," I shake my head, "She _doesn't_ say what she wants. In fact I don't think she _knows_ what she wants. But once she'd killed those men – for the Joker's amusement as much as for her own necessities – the Joker could have killed her and then killed the rest – much more slowly than she did. He let her live."

"What possible use could somebody like the Joker find for Loranski?" Sergeant Bullock asks behind us loudly, "She's a... a..."

"She's full of anger – at everyone and everything - and she doesn't know what to do with it," I answer for him, "Doubtless the Joker intends to direct it. But I think he'll fail. He's too used to manipulating humans. Breech has sacrificed the learning and direction of humans for the simplicity and necessities of animals. She killed those men quickly, where the Joker would doubtless have played his sick games with them, and made them suffer. There's humanity left in her yet."

"Humanity? In that-" Bullock starts behind me.

"Would you rather see more humanity in the Joker?" I ask him sharply, before swinging away.

* * *

><p>Harley: Okay, read and review!<p> 


	10. Walking On Broken Glass

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: Thanks for the appreciation! It's good to know that some people like my story, even if it isn't the million reviews I demanded. Where are my reviews? Now for a psychopathic freak chapter.<p>

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><p>Chapter Ten: Walking On Broken Glass<p>

"So did you have, uh... _fun,_ Breech?" Joker asks me. He sucks on his scars, and I wonder if it's a tic, or if he does it because it seriously unnerves people. It really could be either. Although I admit, I'm getting kind of used to it now. But I stare for too long.

"I asked you a, uh... _question,_ Breech. Did you have fun?" he asks again, his tone much nastier.

"Hmm?" I blink, "Oh. Yes. And no. See... I kinda get it. Those bastards killing each other to get to kill me. But now... now I know. Now I've got a purpose again. I've got a _job_," I emphasise, "And the important thing about your job, is that you don't get emotionally attached. So it wasn't fun. It wasn't _anything_, really. Oh, how I've missed having a job..." I reload the shotgun, smiling.

"Well then," he smirks and hands me the tape he recorded everything on, "Post this, will you sweetie?"

I take the tape, which is covered in stamps, and addressed to Gotham Tonight's main offices. We stop at a mailbox and I shove it in.

"Now... homeward bound!" he laughs, "And we can watch the chaos ensue."

"The Batman is going to pay attention to this," I smile suddenly, "That's why you recorded yourself. To get his attention. I mean, me, who am I? A job for the cops. All I did was kill a few guys who deserved everything they got. But throw the Joker into the pack and suddenly everybody gets a lot more... serious."

He giggles maniacally, "You're finally getting the joke, Breech," he pulls up outside the warehouse and stops laughing abruptly. The cop car is burning and from what I can tell from his expression, he didn't do it.

"Well, this _is_ the Narrows," he says eventually, "You leave a car outside a house with the, uh... _keys_ in the _ignition_, what do you expect?"

"Could just be some cops recovering stolen property," I point out dryly.

"And how would they find out where I was?" he asks, producing another shiv from his jacket. How many of the goddamn things does he have? "Huh? How'd they know?" The shiv's at my throat, "If there's even one cop in there, Breech... even _one_... you die right here."

Anyway, we scour the warehouse from top to bottom, with me having a shiv pointed at my throat for every damn step. God, if they've tracked him down...

But, no cops. I've never been this relieved to see a lack of cops in my life, which is a little surprising considering the circumstances and the many times I've been relieved to see a total lack of cops. But I can't die now. I've got so much work to do...

"Well, looks like you are an honest woman, Breech," he takes the shiv away from my neck and I breath slowly to try and stay calm, "I don't meet many honest people. But I'm a man of my _word_," he drawls slowly, taking off his duster and hanging it up. I hang up my longcoat with it, as well as my weapons.

I breathe slowly, unsure of what to do or say and finally deciding that silence is the best survival option. He walks into the kitchen and starts boiling up strong coffee. In one cup he drops a couple of wake-aids. The other he pushes to me, "Drink," I hesitate, "_DRINK!" _he growls.

I drink. It's bitter as hell, and the cup is dirty too, "You... need to clean this place up," I say slowly, "It's filthy."

"I've got, uh... more _important_ things to think about."

"Well..." I pause, "I could do it."

He weighs me up, a bored look in his eyes, "Sure, why not? That's what gals do, isn't it?"

"It's what _people_ do," I reply.

"And there you were, saying that all people are people, even people like you and me," he laughs. Damn, I'd thought he'd forgotten me saying that. But the Joker has a damn good memory when he finds he can use it against you.

"Of course, there's the bathroom needing cleaning too," I add quickly, "_You_ could do that. All that mess, I bet that's you. You know, with all that DNA the cops might just be able to peg down who you really are," I pause, watching his irritation build up at the truth of the words, "And then they might just be able to peg down how you got the scars."

Now he's starting to look pissed. Not really mad like I've seen him go whacko once or twice in the Asylum, but like he wants me to stop now.

"I bet..." I pause, "I bet it's not about you not wanting people to know how. I bet you don't _want_ to remember. If I could forget just how I got this way, I would too. It's," I sneak a sly look, "...perfectly _normal_ to feel that way about a traumatic experience."

The punch knocks me off my feet and to the floor, with the coffee mug shattering on the floor, and I gasp as he hauls me back to my feet by my hair, his shiv at my throat. I giggle. I can't help it. He realises if he shivs me, he loses. He lets go of my hair, and I actually drop a couple of inches to the floor.

"Scarecrow taught you good," he concedes, scrutinising me, "The cat thing, though... most people hide who they are with a facade of being a nice person. 'Cus they can't stand that they're monsters, deep inside. I just paint my real face on the outside. But I wonder, you being a freak like you are and all... is the cat thing what you really are? Or is it the mask? Is that why you didn't care whenever I, uh... drew _attention_ to it? Cus the monster is the mask and you... _you_ want to hide the good person deep inside?"

This time it's me who twitches – only very slightly, but he reads it like an open book, "Why should I want to use a freak as my mask?" I ask him, "Don't you think if I could choose my mask I'd choose something... else?" I ask.

"Or _maybe_," he looks thoughtful, "Maybe you just wanna prove those _bastards_ right _so bad_. They want a monster, so you'll, uh... give them what they want."

Now I'm not twitching. Now I'm just stiff with not reacting. I got to him, and he took it and turned it on me. I don't mind being psychoanalysed by people who hate how I look and are always drawing attention to it by saying that it's not something to be ashamed of. I just ignore them. But when people start pretending that they don't care about the fur and the claws and all that shit... even when it might be true I start feeling the pinch.

_Especially_ when it might be true.

The Joker finishes his coffee quickly. It should probably be burning his mouth. Although I never saw the Joker as one to care about pain. Arkham's orderlies have proved that until they've gotten bored.

He crosses the room and goes into the warehouse, then slams a disc into a player. I instinctively turn – I hate having him at my back. Although it occurs to me, I've never seen him shiv anybody in the back... He goes through several tracks rapidly before settling on... a waltz?

"Now," he looks at me icily, "Dance with me."

"Wh-what?" I manage, then, add hastily, "I mean, why?"

"Is there something the matter with one freak wanting to dance with another freak?" he asks with a smirk, holding out his arms, "Especially one as beautiful as you," he laughs mockingly.

I give up, and step forward. He's a foot taller than me, and while I have to reach up to wrap my arms around his shoulders, and my face rests on his vest, his bare forearms have to reach down. He takes one hand and pretty much holds me in place. The other is in my hair, although for once he's not pulling, and we start to sway a bit to the beat.

Well, if he's going to make me feel uncomfortable as shitty death like this, then I can play games too. So I do what I do best – I don't fight it, but go with the vague sway of the beat, resting the side of my face unflinchingly against his chest. Now this is the part where I'm supposed to tune out...

_Supposed to._

He's warm, like I remember from all those times he's held on to me before. And strong, too. This man is a sociopath; an instinctive liar with zero empathy. If I am anything to him, I am a toy to be played with until he can find out how best to smash me. I mean nothing to him. Or do I? I have to find out. Even if it's what kills me.

"You never answered my question," I tell him.

"Which one?"

"Why dance with me? You could walk out into the night, grab some pretty girl, drag her here, have a dance and throw her away with the morning garbage - in pieces if necessary - and I'd still be here to clean up your kitchen tomorrow. So why me?"

"All the pretty girls in the Narrows are whores. Probably think that the Joker's grabbed them for a dance and that means there's something _special_ about them," he answers.

I try to look up at his face. He feels the attempt at movement and pins my face to his chest, and I can't see it. But there's the tremble of a sneer in his voice. I know if I'm anything to him, he'd never show it openly, "Do you dance often?" I ask.

"Often enough that I know what to do with whores," he answers.

I let the music carry us a little while longer. Then I make my move. It's not much. I never was any good at faking tears. I'm not a crying sort of person anyway. So I fake holding them back by hiding my face, breathing a little harder, and tensing again. I need a reaction.

"_Relax_," he swings me around rapidly on a beat, "Don't be so _scared_. I don't bite. Often."

Scared? Well, scared will do, "I'm not scared," I tell him.

"HA!"

"It's just that..." I slump in his grip, "Never mind."

He tenses a little, "What?" I give him a hesitation, "_What?"_ he growls.

"You're so good at reading people, and I'm not," and suddenly, stupidly, the truth is coming out, "And you're good at lying, and I'm not. I was gonna try and trick you into being dishonest, because by logic if you know a man always lies, he always tells the truth in his lies. I tried to read you but now I just blurt out the truth and I'll _never_ get it!"

"The truth," he replies dully, but I'm angry and I twist away.

"I'm a freak and a monster and even if you were crazy enough to find _that_ appealing, you wouldn't because you don't care about people!" I shout. I turn away stiffly and I don't know where to go. I just walk into the kitchen and grab a glass and smash it in my left hand and I finish by ramming that hand into all that broken glass until I _scream._

I want to feel pain _now_, and this is better than what I'm risking.

* * *

><p>I thought the dancing was just some fun. A game.<p>

I never thought I'd feel anything, because I never do.

I thought she might try to play the game right back, and that's no problem, because I'm better at it.

I never thought she'd admit to it.

The scream from the kitchen gets me moving again. I know a scream of anger from one of pain, but this is both. Breech's hand is dripping blood and there's broken glass in it. I manage to force a mocking laugh, "Well _that's_ a fucking stupid thing to do!" I tell her, smirking.

"If you're going to kill me or hurt me or destroy me, do it now!" she shouts, and she's crying, "If you're going to torture me, get the fuck on with it! Right now, clown! But quit playing with me!" She steps forward, and she puts her bare foot on more broken glass.

And I dash forward and put a shiv to her neck, just to stop her walking on more glass. Why? "You are fucking _impossible_, you know that?" I hiss, looking down at her, "First, you go and glass _yourself_ so you can't hold a gun properly! Then you start screaming at me to kill you as if you think I won't! And then you walk on broken glass so you can't even fight properly! Useless! You're useless!"

"Don't you think I know that by now? Just get on with-"

"Just..." I grimace, "Shut up! You're such a freak! You're honest, and you're hardly a hypocrite at all, and you're not even afraid because you're so busy being _angry!_" I grab her and throw her over one shoulder, but her cry of surprise is not comforting. Glass crunches under my shoes as I walk out of the kitchen. Then I throw her onto the pile of blankets, "Get that glass out of your hand, and your foot," I snarl, "Then bind them up. If it's not done by the time I'm back, you really are useless and-" I realise I'm almost shouting. I hardly ever shout. Always in control, that's me. I take a breath, and manage to get back to my regular tone, "And I'll just have to carve you like a, uh... _turkey dinner_. You cover pain with anger, don't you, Breech? Well let's just say, I'll find out well your anger can cover your pain before you, uh... die _screaming_."

I manage to smile. The threat makes me feel a little better, and I hold the mocking smirk, but when I see the look of unabashed surprise on that cat's face, I know it's too late.

I grab my coat and fling it on, walking out of the warehouse into pouring rain, and it's only once I'm _out_ of the warehouse that I punch a wall so hard, I feel a brick crack. I rest my head against the wall.

I don't feel right.

I really need to get away from that woman and kill somebody before I lose my mind.

* * *

><p>Me: Yeah, everything goes a little bit crazy when you're hanging with the Joker.<p> 


	11. Joker's Flashback

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: Lord, I really did leave it ages before uploading the next chapter, didn't I? This chapter is pretty bloody, and it also has a mild explanation of certain events in previous chapters. Life gets pretty interesting when you're totally insane.<p>

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><p>Chapter Eleven: Joker's Flashback<p>

They're a superstitious, cowardly lot. Orderlies, I mean. No wonder Arkham Asylum might as well install revolving doors, because how is anybody ever supposed to become what _they_ class as sane when they're hitting you until you beg? Not that I ever begged. The very first night I arrived, I hadn't even had a chance to really _do_ anything yet, and they still beat me half to death. I had to laugh at that. And the more I laughed, the harder they hit me. And the harder they hit me the more I laughed.

They just didn't seem to grasp the fact that I _didn't care_. Because it just proves my point more – about people being bastards. They'd beat up patients, and then the doctors quietly ignored it, or passed it off as 'discipline' or 'self-harm'. If I was just an exception to the rule, maybe... but I wasn't. Pretty much every patient at Arkham got the beat-downs. Sometimes for big reasons, like lashing out. Sometimes for little reasons like putting one foot out of place. But most of the time it happened at night, when everybody else could turn a blind eye.

Dangerous and pathetic alike, we all got our turns. But they'd never lay a finger on anybody who might be able to fight back. I guess that's why they chained up Killer Croc so good.

The first time I talked with Breech, we were in the cafeteria. But the first time I _noticed_ her was about six months before that.

I cast my mind back while I look around the streets for somebody suitable to shiv.

* * *

><p><em>We're in the recreation room, and nobody is really doing anything. There are patients playing Uno for worthless tickets, just confirming how worthless money really is, they're watching TV, looking through the TV, looking at old scars, looking at nothing, muttering to themselves, crying...<em>

_Just your average Arkham Asylum day._

_Me? I'm just thinking about the general stupidity of the human race, as usual. Breech Loader isn't even doing anything. In fact she's been downright dull for a mutated cat murderer if I'm honest, and I always am. Usually. She's just another patient. I might even have thought she'd been broken by the shrinks, if she wasn't one of the few patients wearing cuffs 24 hours a day, every day, like they have me do. I've seen her lash out a couple of times but nothing worth thinking about._

_She's sitting on the floor opposite the couch I'm sitting on, hugging her knees to her chest and looking right through me. No big deal. It's about then when three orderlies, no better than thugs in uniform, march in and up to her._

"_It's your hour, Loranski." One of the orderlies pokes Breech in the chest with his night-stick. I recognise him as Jamieson, a bastard who's uglier than a shaven bear and accustomed to dealing with 'violent' patients – probably because he's such a sadistic thug himself. Even worse than my old buddy Lyle Bolton. And another reason I can tell she's not broken in, because he's one of the worst._

_I _know_ he's such a bastard, because there's been quite the number of nights he's beaten all shit out of me. Because I'm so 'dangerous'. If the doctors gave a shit about any of the people in here he'd have been fired years ago. Or more appropriately, locked away. Hypocrites._

_There's a long pause where she doesn't stand, "Don't feel like it."_

"_Do you feel like getting a thrashing for being uncooperative?" Jamieson asks. This sort of thing goes on all the time. I should know; I catch it every other night. Makes me laugh, the way these thugs are paid to work in a 'hospital' and then they beat the shit out of us._

_She's looking right up, at their faces, "I feel like you three glorified thugs are gonna be dead within six months, if you must know." I perk up a bit hearing that. Wondering if she's going to go psycho and try to kill them._

"_Is that a threat, Loranski?" I can just imagine what's going on in Jamieson's head. He's just itching for a reason._

"_A 'threat' would insinuate that it's something you can _prevent_, Mr Jamieson. It's just a fact, that's all," there's a kind of flat look in those eyes as she looks at him, "You boys should tie up your personal affairs and say goodbye to your loved ones real soon – assuming that is, that you actually _have_ anybody who would love a guy who whales on handcuffed women-"_

_I start chuckling to myself as that seems to be the cue for three orderlies to start beating a handcuffed woman so small and light, that I could lift her in one hand, with their night-sticks. Apart from that, they're hitting her body, not her head, so she won't pass out and will feel it. She's rolling pretty well with the punches but you just know it's still hurting._

_And everybody knows she can't defend herself with her claws because she knows if she does, she'll be declawed for sure._

"_Stop that!" Crane stands up, which is better than anybody else was doing, even though he is one of the physically weakest guys in here._

"_Shut up, Scarecrow," Jamieson shoves Crane backwards and grabs Loranski by her slacks, hauling her to her feet, "_Now_ what do you feel, ya schitzoid freak?" he sneers at her._

"_Sorry Mr Jamieson," she winces, clearly in pain, "But that feeling's even clearer now... must be the anti-psychotics. They help me determine fantasy from reality... and they're working."_

_Jamieson looks like he's about to hit her again except now the whole room's watching him, and he might just lose his job if he pulls off one more punch. Possibly. It's the only reason he doesn't hit her again. Well, not in front of us. I bet she'll get one hell of a thrashing from him tonight._

_Makes me wonder if he beats women in his day-to-day life as well as for a job. People are bastards. Damn hypocrites say they wouldn't hit a woman or throw stones at a cat, but cover a woman with fur and everything changes._

_Then she grits her teeth in a sudden anger and grabs the forearm holding her up by her slacks with both furry hands and twists it _just so_, and there's a very loud _*snap*_. She's just given him a compound fracture, and the bone's broken the skin._

"_Do you feel it, Mr Jamieson?" she slumps to the floor, staring intently at him with the same dead look on her face, "It's the Winds of Change..."_

_He breaks into screaming, and I can't help but break into laughter._

_Now _that's_ funny._

* * *

><p>"That's sick."<p>

Commissioner Gordon nodded, trying not to look at the swinging corpse.

"Who was she?" Batman asked.

Bullock rolled his neck, "Her name was Stacy Abels. Just a red-light hooker," he said,

"_Just_ a hooker," Batman said softly, watching as the dead woman swayed slightly in the breeze.

"We found her about an hour ago," Commissioner Gordon looked sick, "Normally I wouldn't call on you for a homicide, but the violence of the crime..." he shuddered, "And the fact that this," he handed a blood-stained card to Batman, "Was in her mouth."

Batman looked at the card. The Joker. He looked up at the woman, and it took all his self-control to not flinch away. She had been beaten, gutted, and hung up by the neck over a lamp-post. Her intestines had been wrapped around her neck. Equally disturbing, was the fact that a stray cat had been gutted similarly and draped around her neck like some fur collar. And her left hand and right foot had both been stabbed repeatedly. It was a sight to nauseate the strongest stomach.

"Any sign of sexual molestation?" he asked grimly.

"Nothing obvious," Gordon replied, "Of course we'll need to do a post-mortem to be completely sure. If you ask me-" he glanced around, sighing.

"Is he gone?" Bullock asked.

"You'll get used to it," Gordon replied.

"Good," Bullock turned around and threw up.

* * *

><p>Batman shuddered. There was no motive to this murder, but it was obvious the Joker had made the kill. The sick joke of a cat and a woman both dead together. Why?<p>

He paused on a rooftop to think. Breech Loader was not dead. That much he was certain of. If she was dead, he was sure they'd know. It wasn't as if the Joker had ever tried to hide his crimes. So... perhaps the dead woman and the dead cat were taking her place?

Sick.

But... perhaps it meant the Joker couldn't kill Breech Loader herself? Couldn't bring himself to do it? The idea disturbed him – that there might possibly be a shred of humanity within that mad dog of a man. Batman suddenly realised that it must disturb the Joker too. So he had run out into the night, and another person had died instead.

If only they had a witness, somebody to tell them how the Joker had been acting when he'd killed this woman... But the only witnesses were the dead woman, the cat, and the Joker himself.

Perhaps he felt the need to prove that he was still a monster. To the city... and to himself.

* * *

><p>When I get back, I'm smiling. The way that whore screamed as I killed her... yeah, and nobody cared. Nobody tried to stop me, or tried to save her. I didn't even bother to gag her. To be honest, the passers-by that alley seemed more concerned about the way the cat screamed than her.<p>

Sick.

To my surprise, Breech has done what I told her. She's pulled the glass out of her hand and foot, then torn up a sheet and bound them up. Of course, without proper treatment, those pretty hands are gonna scar. She looks up at me, trying to decide what to say next.

I walk over to her slowly, and sit down on the pile of blankets, facing her and slowly pulling off my gloves. There's quite a lot of blood on them. On the suit too. But not the vest or shirt. If it's a staring match she wants...

It's not, and I don't even have time to recoil or lash out when she reaches out and takes my hand with her injured one. So I do the next best thing. I squeeze her hand. Hard. My grip is obviously hurting her, especially after she cut herself up, and she grimaces in pain but she doesn't try to get away.

"Feeling... better now?" she asks me, wincing. The fur and the feline features make for a face I'm not so adept at reading, but I can tell that if she didn't have all that she'd be as white as my greasepaint.

"You act like you, uh... _care_ what I feel or do," I turn the subject, loosening my grip on her hand. I'm good at changing subjects if I need to, "All the doctors did. But they didn't care about me. All they cared about was which one of them could 'cure' me. I mean, the 'crazier' the patient, the better the prestige earned and the better the book they can write on it, right? Those men are dead now."

"Metaphorically, or literally?" she asks me.

I smirk a little, "In some cases? Both."

"Bet they kept asking about the scars, huh?" she smirks, "Same for me. I mean... not scars, but... this," she pats her fur, "Suppose I don't want to talk about it? Suppose I don't trust them? Cus it'll go down in their little book? I lied about it for a whole year. But when Doctor Crane switched sides... well, I didn't tell him the truth either. He said I should pick one lie and stick with it. Of course, they knew I was still lying, cus I'm a lousy liar... but it seemed to work out. For me. They stopped bugging me about the truth so much when I started giving them variations on the same lie. Thought they could deduce the truth from the lie. They never even came close..." she chuckles.

"They, uh... gave up on asking me for the truth when they finally realised I wasn't going to tell them," I grin, "Took them almost a year to work it out, the morons."

She reaches up with her good hand and touches the scars, "Can you even feel anything there?" she asks, and her face is full of concern. Probably concern that I'll gut her for touching me, but there's just a little bit of real concern.

"Not... anymore," I lick my lower lip slowly, "_Totally_ numb, Breech." I refrain from flinching at her touch; just sit there like it's nothing.

"That must be..."

"Normal. It's normal now, toots," I pause for a half-second, then unbutton my vest and toss it aside, "Like, uh... your face is for you. Tell me, when you look in the mirror, do you ever feel the urgent, pressing need to kill yourself? Just so you can quit getting that feeling of people staring at you?" I unbutton the shirt, and throw it aside. So she can see the _other_ scars.

The scars on my face, I don't remember right. But these are different. I remember these. Well, most of them. You don't do what I do without... taking bullets. Knife wounds. The occasional whipping. A beating with a chain. Bored Arkham orderlies. All dished out by the sickness that calls itself the human race. The nurses at Arkham always recoiled in shock and disgust whenever they saw the scars. I relish her wide eyes.

"Ugly, aren't they?" I ask her, smirking, "And just think, Breech, they'll be there until I'm dead, and long after."

She hesitates, "But they _happened_ in the past," she one-ups me. It's a weak blow, but it's a blow just the same, "Still..." she continues, "I'll bet people saw you differently with the scars, than they did without them," a long pause, and I can see what she wants to ask. She's still afraid of me. That's something to be thankful for, at least.

I enjoy her discomfort for some time, before speaking, "Go ahead, Breech. Ask, and thou shalt receive."

"Would it bother you if I... touched the scars?" she asks.

"Not in the slightest."

I grin as she suddenly hesitates.

* * *

><p>Me: You see, I really am still working on this, I've just got other things as well... like that other story of mine in the Sonic fandom, Prison Island Break.<p> 


	12. Fight! Fight! Fight!

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: I should have updated a LONG time ago. God but I'm getting lazy.<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Twelve: Fight! Fight! Fight!<p>

It's not easy to touch the Joker's scars at first. They're calloused and rough and uneven. But the discomfort is temporary. When he doesn't shiv me for touching him I relax a little. A few breaths and I no longer care. But I'm on shaky ground. Tap-dancing on quicksand.

"Wanna know how I got, uh... _these_ scars?" he asks, pointing at the ones on his torso.

"What scars?" I ask absently, resting my hands on his chest. He's tall and lanky, but I can feel a lot of muscle there. No wonder he can hit so hard, "Oh, yes. Those scars. I'm sure every single one is a fascinating story; another example of how disgusting people are; what they'll do for money or hate or just one more precious second of their pathetic, wasted lives."

Joker licks his lips, "Damn right."

You know, there's a funny story? There was a man who wanted a fighting dog. So his mooks, they went out and when they came back they had the most scarred, ugliest, meanest dog you ever did see. And their boss took one look at the dog, and do you know what he said? He said, "Good start. Now bring me the dog that gave him those scars."

I wonder who gave the Joker his scars...

There's a difficult pause, but eventually I speak again, "You're tense," I tell him, "It's the way you walk. All hunched up, like you want to look smaller. It's no good for your back _at all_."

"Do I, uh... _look_ like a man who cares about little things like a few twinges in the back?" the Joker asks me.

"Maybe not," I tell him, "But how about you roll over onto your front."

"Trying to do the charitable thing, huh Breech?" he asks, rolling over.

"Sometimes I do my job. At least when I have a job..." I sigh, "At least then there's some use for me. Now this might hurt a little-" I pause, "What am I saying, might?" I smile dryly, and dig my fingers – but not my claws, of course – into his shoulders. There's a lot of clicking and cracking of joints.

"You're, uh... _right._ It does hurt," Joker winces, "_Harder_."

"You're the boss," I oblige. It was what I intended to do anyway. It's taking a lot of pressure to really hammer all that muscle into its proper place. Like the scars, he's probably so used to being stiff by now that this would be agony. Working down his spine, I don't bother to tell him how much better he's going to feel if I can do this right. It wouldn't be any fun for him if he knew. There's a really distinct _crunch_ with the sound of something going back where it should be.

"How about you use those, uh... pretty _claws_ of yours?"

"Wanna hear a bedtime story?" I ignore him on the claws thing, and keep going on those bones as hard as I need to, "It's about me. And you. It's funny, you know. Before _they_ brought you to Arkham, they called _me_ the monster and the freak. But then you arrived and they seemed to change their minds. I mean, they even used the water-hoses on me less."

"Ugh..." he winces as I work a trapped nerve, but he's still grinning, "_Jealous,_ much?"

"They called _you_ the freak and the monster," I ignore that one too. Something clicks into place, "I wasn't so much fun any more. You were the challenge. They were really working you over. Worse than me, I think. I saw the bruises, sometimes."

"So why didn't you, uh... _tell_ anybody?" he doesn't sound resentful. If anything, he sounds amused.

"Who the hell pays any attention to what one nutcase says about another?" I sneer, "Point is, I understood why they went over me. I mean, I _am_ a freak. But you... sure, you did awful things, but you... apart from the scars, you're human. Those bastard orderlies beat me harder than a piñata. But you... they were whaling on you too. I'd nearly gotten off track but that got me _thinking_ again. I thought, those bastards, what gives them the _right?"_

"Heh. Heh-heh-heh..."

"Don't think I ever condoned the things you did, Joker. You were so... _unprofessional_," I warn him quickly, "Doing it for fun. That's just... a different kind of job. As I was _saying_," I continue before my story can be dragged off track, "what gave them the right, was that they were on the other side of the glass. Before then, all I'd really believed in was doing my job. But that was the day I _understood_. There _is_ good and bad in the world, even if what you call good is just the lesser of two evils. There _has_ to be, otherwise how could we ever make a single decision? But it's about perspective. It's all about which side of the glass you're on. So much so, that it doesn't _matter_ which side of the glass you're on."

The Joker starts to giggle, "Heh. Yeah, I'll bet..."

I barely hear him, suddenly feeling so _angry_, "Unlike the so-called 'qualified' doctors, who only wanted to get me on their side of the glass, to gain the respect and admiration of their colleagues! Or maybe even write a book on how they turned a mutant freak into a 'productive member of society'! A job isn't about respect or admiration! You don't do a job for the _respect_, you do it because it needs to be done! And it needs to be done _right!_ If you do it right, respect is a given!"

The Joker sits up. There's a final clicking and cracking of joints, and he turns around, "And you saw the, heh... the _light._"

"Actually, I saw the _light_ a long time before that," I twitch a smile, and look right into those dark, shining eyes, "Let's just say I took another step forward-"

Without warning, the Joker lunges forward and pins me, sitting astride my waist. And then he produces a pair of very sharp scissors, and presses them to my jugular, "You pretend I can't hurt you," he stares at me, darkly, "That I won't... I can't... that I'm weak... and yet..." he leans forward, fingers on my neck, "I can feel your pulse, uh... _racing_... there's a part of you that's not _sure_... that's still _afraid_ because you think I'm crazy and I might do, uh... _anything_..."

I hate when he's right like this. The more I try not to be afraid of him, the more the doubt worms its way in, and the fear makes me feel like I'm all tied up, I can hardly breathe or think... all I want is to get away... I've never been this afraid before...

"Please just be joking..." I whisper.

"You're not an easy freak to read, Breech," the scissors stroke my neck, "See, uh... humans... well, people who pretend they're civilised and good... they're wrong. But you... something messed you up and now you're not human, there's an animal in you... like me! Cus so-called animals are a helluva lot more civilised than humans ever are. They don't lie, they don't cheat, they're not hypocrites or murderers... I always preferred animals to humans."

"Um..." I manage. Suddenly I force off the fear and try desperately to sit up and get him off me.

"Penned in and you _still_ fight back!" he sounds a little impressed, "Now that's what I like in a woman. I wonder, if I shaved off all that fur, would you be hiding a, uh... a _human_ underneath?" he uses the scissors to cut a little of my fur, "You get the joke but you don't laugh... so maybe I should put a _smile_ on that pretty face..."

He's moving the scissors closer to my face. I swallow, and suddenly I twist, and bite his hand, hard. He yelps, more in surprise than pain, and reels back again, swearing as he drops the scissors, "Well, what do you expect from a penned animal?" I ask him angrily.

The Joker just starts laughing crazily, looking at his bloody hand for a few seconds, "Oh Breech, you are a _riot,_" he chuckles, wiping imaginary tears from his face, before holding his bleeding hand. There's quite a lot of blood – I have sharp teeth, "Damn! That hurt!" But he's grinning wildly as he says so.

I'm breathing again normally, and I pull out a little from under him. He looks at me again, and I still don't know quite what to expect. Normally that's what gets people scared – uncertainty - but everything's temporary. I don't get scared any more. I just have to keep control of myself, "That was the idea," I tell him, "Now..." I pull out a strip of sheet, "Just let me fix that up."

"And now you're going to try and be my nurse. Funny, Breech."

"If you want to keep a... freak... as a pet, you're going to have to deal with what little of me is human, as well as the monster and the animal," I reply.

"Ha!" he smirks, but it fades a little when I stand. He stands too, if only to intimidate me with his height, pulling his shirt and vest back on. But before he can say anything else, I grab his wrist and pull him into the kitchen. I'll scrub it clean soon, but for now I just run the cold water and plunge his hand under it. He says nothing as I clean off the blood and bind up the bite wound.

And an unexpected memory flashes across my mind...

* * *

><p><em>Fire the handgun until it's empty, then pull the old 'New York Reload' and do it again. Pull out the shotgun. Using it one-handed, reloading while I'm moving. Use their weapons when they fall. Out of ammo? Use the barrel of the shotgun as a club.<em>

_Kick. Spin. Punch. Dig in the claws and kill. Down, kick. Split kick. Jump, and drive a knee into his neck, breaking it. Bite. They're nothing but thugs; they go down quickly and easily._

_And then they're dead. All of them. Except one – the ugly little man in the tuxedo is staring at twenty dead henchmen. I had orders to let him live, and I swore I'd always fulfil my contracts. To the letter._

"_Mister Cobblepot, my employer doesn't like threats. Consider this your warning."_

_He swallows his shock and puts on a businessman-like facade again, "Madame, through circumstances I find myself at a need for... employees. Your unusual appearance doesn't trouble me in the least. Perhaps you would consider-"_

"_Maybe some other time, Mister Cobblepot. But right now I need to report to my current employer. Enjoy the rest of your day."_

_He's still staring at the bodies as I walk away._

* * *

><p>"Breech?"<p>

"Huh?" I blink and look up. Joker's looking down at me, looking interested, "Oh, yes." I finish dressing the bite I gave him, "I'm sure you know the drill. Keep it clean. Don't pick at it. And try not to work it too hard." Not that I imagine he'll pay too much attention to my basic advice.

"You seemed a little, uh... _preoccupied."_ he licks his lower lip, "Mind telling me?"

"I was... just remembering the first time I killed somebody."

"_Really?_" he looks horribly interested. He leans in a little closer. The scars don't bother me now, but I have to lean back, because the actual proximity of the man is still discomforting. I'm sure he knows it.

I hesitate, "Well actually, that's not exactly true. I was..." I sigh, "...remembering the first time I found out how _good_ I had become at killing people."

"Is it a good story?" he asks with a dry smirk.

"Apart from maintaining client confidentiality, I don't think you would find it particularly funny," I tell him, "Apart from the fact that directly after I'd killed his henchmen, as instructed, the man offered me a job."

"Ha!" he barks his laugh sharply, sounding almost like a dog, then cocks his head, "What did it _feel_ like, Breech?"

"No," _Crazy bitch, you're gonna piss him off and get yourself-_ "First I want you to tell me what it felt like the first time you killed somebody. Or," I add, "The first time you _remember_ killing somebody. Then I'll tell you mine."

He looks at me, as if amused by the boldness and suicidal nature of my question. Then he nods, as if saying to himself, what does it matter? He puts the slow, steady smirk back on his face. He sucks on his scars thoughtfully, "It felt," he licks his lower lip slowly, "It felt like it _wasn't_ the first time I'd killed somebody. And I knew as soon as I pulled that trigger, that it wouldn't be the last. Now you."

That's the most I'll get out of him for now, "Me?" I shrug, "I felt..." it's so hard to describe, "After it was done, it was the first time I'd felt like the job had been well done. Because there were so many of them dead, you see. But while I was killing... I felt like music."

That puts confusion on his face. Well, a man with what amounts to negative empathy can hardly be expected to understand how something feels for another person.

Because I seem to have lost all desire for survival at this moment, I decide to enlighten him, "You listen to music sometimes, right? Well..." I stride out of the kitchen to the CD player, and something in me is filled with satisfaction when he follows, "Music. Of course it has to be the right music. Or at least, the right tempo..." I slide in some rock-metal, "See, it starts off hard and rough, but it's not going down just yet. Even the first verse, you're just getting ready..." we listen for about thirty seconds, "And then... BAM! In comes the chorus and you can feel your pulse racing, see yourself moving to it, but it's not dancing, it's fighting. And killing. And then, there's the next verse, a breather, but before you know it, the chorus is back in and it's the same, but it's faster and harder too. And then you might have the bridge. That part's important. It's during the bridge that you kill the most. Like music..."

* * *

><p>Killing feels like music.<p>

I never thought of it that way.

But still, it's funny that she does. She's always making things fun.

Before she even finishes her sentence I step up behind her and wrap my arms around her waist. I've held her before, but that was always... a joke. I wanted to make her squirm, because everybody does, and she would, but then she'd just move on...

I'll admit, I don't remember ever having sex with another person. Oh, I've scared women, but that was just for fun. I never went through with it. I threw a few women to the mooks, but that's different. And there've been movies. I've watched dirty movies too, though not very often. And there was this one time when I stabbed this pregnant woman right in the swelling of her belly... You know what she screamed about? She didn't scream for her life; she begged me to spare her for the _baby's_ sake. That was one I'd never heard before...

But I don't remember... ever holding a woman just to hold her.

This is the first time.

Breech's fur is short, black and soft. Except for the longer, white hair on her head. I run a hand through it briefly. Her body is so slim, I could pick her up with one hand, and there's not an ounce of fat on her – it's all tight, compact muscle. There's a few scars, but you get that with this line of work. I should know.

She tenses slightly, and I realise suddenly that while making her scared is fun, right now, at this moment, I don't _want_ her to be afraid of being close to me. And that I don't know how to do that.

But right now, she's all I've got.

"Joker?" Breech speaks, and I look down at her.

"What?" I ask her shortly. I feel like I'm doing something wrong but I don't want to stop...

"If you want to hold me, you only have to ask."

"I don't have to ask to use, uh... my _property._" My property? Where'd that come from? Like I want to own her?

"That's the point, Joker. I'm _not_ your property," she looks up at me, "You let me go. You sent me out for coffee with a gun, remember? You didn't expect I'd ever come back. I don't know what in this world possessed me to do so, but I did. And I can leave any time I choose."

She's so right I want to be sick. All I can think of doing is holding on tighter, "Then, uh... you're my property as of _now._"

"You're claiming me as your property. As of now." It's not an angry, incredulous question, but a statement confirming that I've said what I've just said.

I narrow my eyes, "You belong to me."

"A temporary situation."

And she throws me halfway across the room. Not with size, but with speed and leverage and momentum and she actually manages to surprise me. I'd laugh, and applaud her, except I don't have time for that – she's running for the door.

I do the only thing I can think of – I grab the nearest weapon I can find and start firing at her. On reflection, it was probably a bad idea to make that choice a rapid-fire machine-gun.

But god damn she's fast.

And in that speed, she dodges, and grabs her own longcoat and guns from where they've been hanging next to my duster, "You are not getting out that _door_, Breech!" I shout, and level the gun at the door she'll _have_ to use if she wants to exit this building.

In my rage I've forgotten we're in a warehouse. I've even forgotten Breech isn't human.

She doesn't head for the door. Even as she's running she pulls on the coat. I fire at her again, but the longcoat makes her a harder target – ironically one of the reasons I use my duster. And she turns 90 degrees on one heel, changing her direction completely, and jumps five at a time up the stairs. I fire again, but the bullets all miss or hit the heavy metal balcony of the stairs.

I chase – like a mad dog I'm chasing, but by now she's on the second floor and I have to stop her, I have to stop her getting away. She fires her own gun – not at me, and I wouldn't care if she was – but at the skylight, shattering glass. The roof... she wants to get to the roof. The only way is up the stairs, and I locked the door, so why the goddamn skylight? She can't get out through the-

And then I realise that she _can_. She wouldn't even _try_ if she couldn't, "NO!" I scream in rage, even as she jumps thirty feet, grabs that skylight and swings herself up and out through it.

I hammer up the stairs to the third floor with the door to the roof, three at a time, and I don't even think twice about shooting the lock off. I kick the door open, and she's on the roof. I'm not out of breath but I'm not thinking. Well, I am thinking, but only of one thing.

Breech looks back at me, and she's already aiming the shotgun at the door, which is where I'm now standing. Would she fire? Would I? Do I really not care enough about pain and life to test her?

"Joker, if you knew you could _keep_ me, you wouldn't _want_ me," she states, jumping onto the very edge of the roof. It's a good forty foot fall for her, but that's not what I'm thinking about right now.

"Where do you get, uh... that _shit_ from? _Fortune cookies?"_ I smirk. I'm screaming inside, "You won't leave. Not now. You can't. You wouldn't _dare._"

She doesn't even dignify me with an answer. She jumps. And not down. She jumps thirty feet to the roof across the street. And she doesn't look back; she keeps running, jumping streets, dodging every which way in case of bullets. A few more buildings, and she melts into the darkness completely. She's gone.

And all I can do is laugh, because it's laugh, or cry.

* * *

><p>Me: Yeah, I know. It's getting weird. Very crazy. And very weird. We're moving on.<p> 


	13. Two Days Later

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: I'm SO sorry this update took so long. It shouldn't have, but it did. Sometimes I get side-tracked with other things.<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Thirteen: Two Days Later<p>

Where do you hide, knowing that all and sundry will look for you?

Do you hide in the last place people will look for you? Of course not, because all too often that's the first place people look. They think they're clever, you see.

You hide where nobody will look _at all._

* * *

><p>Two days without Breech. It's kicking in like the 72-hour withdrawal from crack.<p>

But I've got contacts. Every mob boss and his mook in this filthy city is searching for her, and every gang-banger and hustler and hooker and dealer and pimp too. And I only had to kill two people to make them do it. I had to tell a few little white lies about why I want her back alive and unhurt, but they bought it.

The cops, obviously, are looking for her too, and although I can't exactly ask them, I've got a few idiots on the inside who keep me filled in on what's going down.

The Bat is looking for her too, but he's also looking for me, so that complicates things a little bit. Still, he likes the attention of the media –kinda like me – and if he doesn't like it, he gets it anyway, so I'm watching him too.

Oh, and the morning after she left, the media got a little tape from me, to tell this city that the person who brings me Breech Loader, alive and undamaged, will get 10 million dollars in cash. It's not like I've got much use for the money, anyway.

This is only a temporary situation. Like she said.

I want her back. Then I'm going to beat hell out of her for running away from me.

* * *

><p>Bruce Wayne watched the tape he'd acquired from the media – unfortunately he'd only managed to get hold of it <em>after<em> they had aired it.

Motives to hell, this was a surefire way to spread chaos in Gotham City. The city was a boiling pot at the best of times – a 10 million dollar bounty on a violent, unstable criminal was going to get somebody killed.

No. People had already died because of this bounty. He couldn't allow the loss of more lives.

"I have to find her, Alfred."

"Why, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked, "Perhaps it would be better to concentrate your efforts on finding the Joker and making him lift this ridiculous bounty."

"The Joker's gone to ground. He's off the radar, and he's disappeared. And yet he keeps reappearing, and every time he does, people die. And he's getting very impatient. Something tells me finding Breech Loader is the key to finding him. Or at least, drawing him into the light."

"Perhaps the 10 million dollars he's willing to pay for her safe return."

"You think?" Bruce asked, unable to keep the trace of sarcasm out of his voice, "The trouble is, the whole city is being turned upside down and inside out in search of Breech Loader. Inmates are breaking out of Blackgate – and the Riddler just broke out of Arkham - to look for her. And yet _nobody_ can find her. Look," he pointed to a map of the city, "She hit three grocery stores in the last two days, stole what she wanted, and then vanished again. She killed two people. Less than an hour after each hold-up, the Joker turned up, and upon not finding her, blew each store up."

"Perhaps her fear of the Joker means she'll flee the city."

"That won't make things any better, Alfred. The Joker won't lift the bounty. He'll keep looking. If anything he'll expand his search. And more people will die. I have to find this woman. If for nothing else, then at the very least her own safety."

"Then you'll need to think like her."

Bruce nodded, "Or find somebody who knows how she thinks..." he paused as an idea came to mind.

* * *

><p>"Scarecrow," I growl.<p>

Crane looks up at me with a small smirk on his face. His hands are cuffed, and he's in Arkham slacks, but he's still the very picture of a learned psychiatrist. If you didn't know, you'd never believe he's an egotistical maniac obsessed with fear, "Batman," he smirks, bridging his fingers, "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" He doubtless already knows, but he must love the fact that I need his help.

"Where's Breech Loader?"

He stares at me, "What makes you think _I_ know?"

"In all the time Breech Loader spent in this Asylum, there was nobody she got closer to than you. If anybody knows where she's hiding, it's _you._"

Another long pause. He's not even trying to hide the smirk now, "The orderlies and the doctors asked me that very same question. Quite emphatically, in fact," he gestures casually to a greenish-purple bruise on his arm, "If I didn't help _them_, why in the world would I help _you?_"

I stride over and lift the lanky man right out of his seat, "Several reasons," I slam him against the wall. His feet are now several inches off the floor, "Firstly, I don't _need_ 10 million dollars to make your life difficult, Scarecrow. Just imagine all the little ways I can make things tough for you if you refuse to assist me. Secondly, if I don't find her, _somebody else will_. And thirdly, because I'll _beat_ it out of you if I have to."

He pauses, considering. To hurry him along I slam him against another wall, and he winces, "Then you have to meet my conditions."

Another wall, "No." I'm not going to bargain with this madman.

He grimaces again, "Then you can glare at me with that ominous, brooding look all you like, and beat me all you want, but you'll get _nothing._"

I realise I have little choice, "I'm listening."

"Firstly, you'll _put me down._"

I drop him roughly.

He dusts himself off calmly and walks over to the seat – the chair that _I_ was going to sit in. If I did any sitting, "Secondly, take off these blasted handcuffs."

I unlock them. Scarecrow's no match for me, and he knows it. He won't try to fight me - at least not in the physical sense.

He stretches his arms wide, a look of relief on his face, then continues, "Thirdly, this... session... is not to be recorded – audio or visual. Not by the hospital, or by you. Nobody else watches or listens to what passes between us. _Nobody_. Understood?"

"That's already been taken care of." For 10 million dollars I trust nobody, especially not the employees of Arkham Asylum.

He studies me, and seems to decide I'm telling the truth, "Fourthly, you will, at least in this room, call me Doctor Crane."

I see where this is going now. It's not a pretty road. This is all for the sake of his ego. Despite being a patient and a lunatic, Scarecrow still considers himself superior to any of the doctors in here. It's _one_ of the reasons he hasn't been cured yet. Still, if I want him to talk, I have to play his little game, and at least there is nobody watching my play, "Very well, _Doctor_ Crane."

"And finally," his voice lowers to the tone he used as the Scarecrow, "You'll say it."

"Say what?"

"Say it. Say why you came to talk to me, and not Breech's idiot therapists or the other doctors or just ran about Gotham City aimlessly looking for her on your own in a panic like a chicken with its head cut off, the way everybody else is doing. _Say it_."

The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth as I glower at the madman, "Doctor Crane, I need your advice."

He smiles brightly, and leans back a little, his ego satisfied – for now, "There, you see? A little give, a little take, some _respect,_ and look at how much more pleasant things become."

"So, Doctor Crane, where is Breech Loader?"

"You were right to come to me," Crane continues, "I never _made_ her do anything. I never frightened her. Not deliberately, anyway. Do you know, she actually taught me more about fear? Of course I already know everything about human fear but she taught me about _primal_ fear. The fear that animals possess. And human animals too. With her insight added to my genius, I don't _need_ the fear toxins."

"Get _on_ with it, Crane!"

"Well," he leans forward again, fingers bridged and an intense look on his face, "As you probably know, I do have certain privileges. In fact I shared them with Breech. I knew at once when that _clown_ offered his reward, my furry little student would be making the news and causing trouble for days. And of course I was right, wasn't I?"

I give him no answer but a silent glare. I've given him too much already as it is.

"I'll take that brooding silence as a yes. The panic and chaos she's causing just by _not being there_... it's educational, and it makes me feel quite proud."

"I know you two were close. Has she been in contact with you, Scarecrow?" I growl.

He laughs lightly, "Heavens no! She wouldn't be so foolish."

"The Riddler has broken out to find her and get that money, _Doctor_ Crane. If he does-"

"Nygma is a very clever idiot," Crane smirks, "If he hasn't found her by now, he's looking in all the wrong places. I know about the robberies, by the way. And what the Joker did to the places she robbed when he couldn't get to her in time. And here I thought _nothing_ could faze that clown!" he laughs again.

"People are _dying_, Crane. But I know that means nothing to you. So I'll try another approach," I tell him, "If anybody but me catches her, they'll hand her over to the Joker. He'll continue to corrupt her mind – _if_ he doesn't kill her for running away with his money. She'll forget everything you taught her, you won't be able to use her, and all your fine work on your little apprentice will be wasted. If I find her, she'll be returned safely to the Asylum, your record will be hugely improved and you could be out of here in a matter of months."

Crane sneers, "And once she's in here, the staff will be the first to turn her over to-"

"I'll make sure that doesn't happen," I interrupt. This whole conversation is a chance for him to show off, but I have no choice but to let him speak.

There's a pause, "Very well. There are two approaches to finding her. There's the logical approach, which clearly isn't working. And then there's _my_ approach," Crane breathes in slowly, "She's obviously not moving around the city, or she would have been found by now."

"Everybody's looking for her."

"I know. Scouring the city from top to bottom, looking under every rock, on every rooftop, in every basement. Why, on the news I heard that people are even hunting in the sewers! Everybody's looking for her, but clearly they haven't looked _everywhere_, or they would have found her."

"Loader is still in the city. Don't try to tell me she's left, Doctor Crane, or you'll never be able to hold a spoon again, let alone cook up a batch of fear toxins."

"Oh, she hasn't left. But the shops she's hit – one was in the north of the city, one to the east, and one to the south. You're intelligent enough to deduce that she's trying to draw attention away from where she's hiding. But she's _not_. She doesn't think like that. She's drawing attention to where she _is_ – like in the grocery store. Everybody runs there. Including Joker. He really does want her back, doesn't he?" Crane laughs. The man's intelligent lecture is somehow almost as infuriating as the Joker's enjoyment of pain.

"Stay on track, Doctor Crane," I growl.

"Of course, of course... Still working by your logical rules, the stores she's robbed... the first was a Kwik-E-Mart. Wherever she's hiding, she isn't being supplied with food. The second was an electronics store. She wants to know what's going on, so she isn't in a place where she's being supplied with information. The third was a munitions store. She knows she's being hunted and she'll fight and kill anybody who finds her."

"I KNOW all this, Crane! Tell me something I _don't_ know!"

Crane smirks, "Very well. When I was much younger, I once played a game called 'Hunt The Thimble'. I'm sure you've heard of it. The teacher told us to leave the room for a minute, and she would hide a thimble. When we came in, every child was searching everywhere for the thimble, and she moved around the room, calling out occasionally, 'Hot', 'Cold', 'Boiling!'. And we looked and looked until we were tired out, but we simply _could not_ find that thimble. And one by one we gave up. And we asked her where the thimble was. And..." he smiles, looking almost normal for a moment, "She reached into her pocket and there the thimble had been hiding all along."

I resist slamming his smug face into the table, "What is your _point,_ Crane?"

"My _point_ is that you're looking at this too _logically_. Fear isn't logical – it makes you _irrational_. You're thinking, where would the _freak_ Breech Loader hide? Trying to think like her, hmmm? You should look at it from another perspective. Think, where would a frightened woman hide?"

I hesitate. Doctor Crane is right. I am looking at this the wrong way. Just like everybody else is.

"_Think,_ Batman. A young woman runs away from her abusive _boyfriend_," he sneers. It's common knowledge that Scarecrow despises the Joker, "But where will she hide, knowing that he will hunt for her? And his friends will hunt too. And in this case, the entire city has a 10 million dollar incentive to find her. She can't hide in plain sight, because everybody knows her face. She has no family or close friends she dares trust. She can't go to the police, because she doesn't trust them either. She can't go back, but like many abused women, she can't bring herself to run away. Where does this frightened woman hide?"

An idea is forming, and I clutch at it, aware that if I let go for a second it will vanish.

"She hides in the one place her _boyfriend_ wouldn't even dream she'd go to."

I grimace. It's impossible...

"The one place _nobody_ goes, unless they have no other options."

No. It can't be _that_ simple...

"The _one place_ she has always felt safe..."

I leap to my feet, "ARKHAM!"

I can hear Scarecrow laughing madly even as I storm out the room.

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><p>Me: There we go! Hopefully I can get a little more back on track now. Leave a review! Oh, and explanations for why Batman gave in so easy to Scarecrow? Basically it's based on the idea that he's still learning how to be Batman.<p> 


	14. On The Roof

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: This chapter has Batman find Breech. But more importantly than that, it's about how this is the first time Breech has met the Batman. Oh, she knows <em>about<em> him, but she hasn't been broken in yet. And because she's a danger to his city, that's what Batman has to do now.

In the comics, the average street thug runs from Batman on sight. But the super-villains... well, this chapter is about how _hard_ it must be to intimidate them when it's their first meeting of some guy in a bat suit, they already know his one rule, and they're completely _insane_.

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><p>Chapter Fourteen: On The Roof<p>

How could I have been so... closed-minded? Arkham is the last place in the world anybody would look for an _escaped_ patient. It's surrounded by guards, wire fences, thick walls... She probably got in easily. Who'd want to break _into_ Arkham? Right now though, it's not a prison, it's a _fortress_. It's cut off from the rest of the world – nobody comes here if they can help it. Even if somebody was crazy enough to search here, it's hardly like the guards would let them waltz in and start poking around.

So if you're as scared and crazy as Breech Loader is, it's the perfect place to spend a little time until the heat dies down.

But the last thing I want to do is alert the guards. She'll run and hide again, and thanks to Scarecrow, something tells me that something really bad will happen if this bad kitty gets cornered. No, I've got to find her myself.

She's been hiding somewhere on the grounds of Arkham Asylum. For two days at least. It's a blow that I needed Scarecrow's help to realise it. But it makes me wonder...

He didn't advise the Arkham staff. Even though those 10 million dollars would definitely have bought him his 'sanity'. He told me, though. Because he's afraid? Or because he knows I'd bring her back to Arkham... back to him?

There may be hope for Jonathan Crane yet.

Or maybe he just wants his fascinating student back. The Scarecrow isn't exactly well known for his empathic attitude towards others.

_Now_ is the time for logical thinking. Where in Arkham would she hide? On the grounds? No, too open. In the building? She'd have been caught already by now. Perhaps in the sewers? Doubtful. People are already searching the sewers. She's a cat, anyway. Mostly.

_Click._ There it is again.

Breech Loader is a stray cat, and the Joker is a mad dog, hunting her. Where do cats hide from dogs? Somewhere dogs _can't_ go. Somewhere up high, where anybody can see what's going on, but you don't exactly go there for a casual visit.

The roof.

I can hear the sound of a television playing. Mike Engel's voice.

"_And in our latest news, the Joker is still engaged in his frenzied search for his 'Lady in Red', Breech Loader, in order to retrieve both her, and the three million dollars she has stolen from him."_

"Money stolen the fattest part of my ass... Just an excuse..." a woman's low voice mutters.

"_The entire city is hunting for this mutated feline, but she is nowhere to be found, and the Joker has now doubled his bounty to 20 million dollars. Commissioner Gordon has elected to give us a brief interview on the subject. Commissioner, what do you have to say about this whole matter?"_

"_I say that the civilians of this city need to calm down and stop looking for Bridget Loranski. The GCPD is searching for her; when we find her she will not be handed over to the Joker, but the proper authorities. Anybody who does find her and doesn't hand her over to the police will be considered an accomplice to Joker and arrested on kidnapping charges."_

"_Do you have any leads though? This, uh..."_

"Freak. Admit it, bastard. Freak."

"_This female seems to have vanished totally off your radar."_

"It's called a blind spot, you stupid bastard, and I'm not leaving it until I choose to."

"_We have no leads as of yet..." _Gordon sounds uncomfortable_, "But either way, it is imperative that the citizens of Gotham stop searching for her. She's a dangerous, violent, highly unstable criminal. She doesn't want to be found and whoever does find her will be endangering themselves. If not at her hands, then at the Joker's, when they go to claim their 'reward'."_

"_As for the reward that is now 20 million dollars, Commissioner, can you honestly say you wouldn't be tempted to hand her over to the Joker yourself?"_

"_Reward, Mike? It's no reward, it's a glorified bribe. Apart from the fact that it would be breaking the law, I don't know what the Joker plans to do with Bridget Loranski if he got his hands on her, and I don't intend to find out. This is another of the Joker's sick games to test people's humanity."_

"_But after all the things she's done-"_

"_Bridget Loranski is a highly disturbed, violent and vulnerable young woman, Mike. The Joker is hunting her like the mad dog he is, and that's making her frightened, which makes her even more dangerous. She escaped from Arkham Asylum, and when my men apprehend her, Arkham is where she'll be returned to..."_

"Heh..."

"_...Where she'll be safe, and treated like a human being, not the item of property the Joker seems to consider her to be."_

"Big words, Commissioner. Easy to say when you don't have a fucking clue..."

"_But she's not human, Commissioner-"_

"_Mike, there's a common Russian folktale. A man was driving a sled being chased by wolves, and to save himself, he threw his passengers to the wolves, one by one. But the hunger of the wolves was insatiable, and finally they caught up with him. And there was nobody left to fight them with him. I will not throw Bridget Loranski to this wolf, regardless of the things she's done – or what she looks like."_

"_An interesting comparison, Commissioner."_

"_Let the Joker raise his bounty. 10 million, 20 million, 50 million, 100 million. It will make no difference. I will not be bribed, and especially not by a sick animal like the Joker."_

"_What about your men though, Commissioner? Do you think any of them might be tempted? "_

"_I trust my men. But they're not perfect. Still, if any cop in Gotham takes the Joker's bribe, they'll have a hard time spending it in Blackgate Prison. It's blood money."_

"You know, Commissioner, I do believe you're a good man. I wonder if your men are the same..." Breech Loader whispers.

"You won't need to find out," I growl clearly. Breech leaps to her feet, smashing the portable television and dropping a slice of pizza in her surprise.

"Batman," she whispers. Well, she's never seen me before. She was put in here before I turned up. Then she produces a shotgun. But she doesn't take aim. She's smarter than that. She just taps it against her leg for now.

"You hid well, Breech. I was stumped for a while," she doesn't need to know about the Scarecrow helping, "But it was obvious when I thought about it. Where does a stray cat run when she's hunted by a mad dog? To the one place the mad dog can't go."

"So you've found me. Applause granted. What now? Do you really think I'll just give myself up?"

"I'm not here to take you to the Joker." I glower, "Right now you're the most valuable woman in Gotham. But people in that city are not just looking for you; they're dying because of you. Or should I say, your absence."

"Yeah, I heard," she points to the broken TV, "It's kinda flattering. You think I should wait until the Joker offers 50 million?"

"Do you think people dying is funny?"

"Oh please, drop that menacing glare. Of course not," she smirks, "It's just funny the way a mere 10 million dollars make all those honest, hard-working, civilised people out there jump up to find me, with the intent of turning me over to a murderer and a psychopath. It's like complaining about somebody killing a cow, when you're munching on steak."

"I won't hand you over to the Joker. Don't make me say it again."

"But you'll take me back _there_," she points down with the gun at the building, "You won't kill the cow, but you'll send it to the slaughterhouse. You just think because you won't take the money for it, you're right."

I tense up, because she's right, in a way. 20 million dollars is a lot of money. Commissioner Gordon won't take it. But the staff of Arkham will.

"Maintain your one rule all you please, Batman. Hand me over to the authorities. Then swing away into the night, thinking happy thoughts of innocence. Arkham's rotten to the core, and you know it. But you don't care, because you've kept your one rule."

I can't let her get to me. She's trained under Scarecrow. And she's a _lot_ smarter than she looks. "Gotham is not rotten to the core. I can save it."

"It's because men like you like to eat steak, that the cows get killed."

I glower. It's not working. Breech hasn't been up against me yet. She's not afraid yet. But she _is_ getting a little angry. That's something. Everybody thinks they can intimidate the Bat at first, but I've always proven them wrong. She's glowering at me, a sneer of disgust on her face.

"You're scum in denial. _You're_ what's wrong with this city. You're no better than the Joker-"

"I AM NOTHING LIKE THE JOKER!" I grab her by the neck and slam her against a wall. It's like throwing aside a doll. She's too small, too light. I can't fight her the same way I fight six-foot thugs. But I can't underestimate her either.

"You are..." she whispers with a smirk, "Just not the way _he_ thinks..." she chuckles, "You know what... what I think? I think you're jealous... Because we're real freaks, and you have to wear a mask!"

I ignore those venomous words, "Tell me where he's hiding, and this nightmare ends."

"You think it's that simple?"

"Aren't you afraid of him?"

Hesitation. For once it's a good sign, "Yes."

"Then _tell_ me," I shake her.

"No."

"Who are you more afraid of? The Joker, or me?"

She pauses, "Hmmmm. Can you give me a moment to think that one over?"

"You can't hide here forever. Somebody will find you, sooner or later."

"I can hide for long enough. You're really starting to hurt my-"

"Long enough for what? What's his plan, Loranski?"

"_His_ plan? Who said anything about it being _his_ plan?"

I stop, "What's your plan?"

"Put me down and you'll find out."

I hit her. I can't show weakness to this woman. She has to learn to respect the Bat.

She shakes it off with a wicked grin, "You know, Joker hits a lot harder than that, and he-"

And again. This is getting ugly, "Tell me, and I'll put you down. What. Is. Your. Plan?" I walk over to the edge of the roof, and hold her over it, "You have _no_ idea how difficult I can make your life."

"While I'm stuck in here?" she sneers.

I loom, "Yes. Even while you're in here."

Another hesitation as she's trying to outstare me. It doesn't work. I can't afford to let it work. If I'm going to be the Batman, if I'm going to save this city, I can't let the criminals see any sign of weakness. Compromising with Scarecrow was bad enough, but at least he was in a cell that I put him in. Breech Loader has to be brought into line, and she's playing with my one rule.

"At least bring me back onto the roof..."

I almost fall for it. I stop myself just in time. The human part of her is searching for any weakness at all, and the animal part will exploit it forever if she finds it, "Or I could just _let you go._"

"Hrrrrm..." she growls, but nods, with immense difficulty. I breathe an internal sigh of relief, watching as she drops the shotgun, which breaks on the grass far below, "You just don't get it, do you? Put me in Arkham and it's only a matter of time before some corrupt doctor takes the Joker up on his offer, and I get paid for and what am I? Property. But I hand myself in... I collect the money."

"You're playing games?" I'm squeezing her neck harder, "You ran away just to get money from him?"

"No..." she gasps, "I ran away... to see what he'd do about it... and the look on his face when I go back..."

Does this woman actually... care for the Joker? She really _does_ belong in Arkham, "Where _is_ the Joker?"

"Can't... tell you that..."

"I know you know! If he isn't brought back to Arkham he will kill, and kill, and kill! So tell me where he's hiding!"

"Can't tell you..." she gasps as I shake her.

"Why not? Do you want to see people die? Are you as sick and cold and twisted as he is?"

"He's my... friend..." she whispers, "You don't tell on friends..."

"The joker has no friends, nor has he ever wanted one," I inform her coldly, "So take me to him!" I hesitate, and put her down, "Take me to him," I calm my voice, "Before more people die. I promise you, I won't kill him. And nobody ever needs to know that you-"

"I'LL KNOW!" she shouts.

It's not the strength of the blow that knocks me down, but the _speed_ of it. She grabs my cape and pulls herself onto the roof again. Most of her attacks are easy to shrug off, but they're fast; very fast. But what finishes it is a heavy blow to my head with the machine-gun's stock, then another, blurring everything.

_You underestimated her..._

That won't happen twice.

Just as I slump, I wonder why she doesn't kill me. Still, at least I know _who_ she's running to, even if I don't know _where_.

Well, I don't know where just _yet_...

* * *

><p>Me: Yeah, the Batman always loses the first fight, but we have fun with the rematch, eh?<p> 


	15. Pretty In Black

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

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><p>Me: See? Still going!<p>

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><p>Chapter Fifteen: Pretty In Black<p>

Pacing, pacing... I haven't slept since Breech ran off three days ago. That's not unusual for me.

What's unusual is why. I've got the money. I raised the bounty to 50 million dollars. I want her alive, so badly. It's been a laugh, how much attention this has gotten... us. But it still hasn't found her. Hell, nobody's even gotten close enough for her to kill them. Although there have been a few more homicides, they weren't commited by her.

Plus, I did raise the money for the reward. I robbed a bank. That's always a little fun.

Amazing, what people do and believe. I told everyone she stole 3 million dollars and they believe I'll pay 50 million to get her back. They're that greedy they'll even ignore what I might do to her once she's back here.

What _am_ I going to do to her?

She can't hide forever. But she's been hiding long enough that I feel like I'm going crazy. I might be proud that she's this good at hiding, if it wasn't me she's hiding from.

I take a freezing cold shower to keep me awake. It washes off my face, so I put that back on again straight away.

I want her back. More now than ever.

"GOD DAMMIT!" I punch the bathroom wall with my fist so hard a few tiles crack. I won't beg. But I had to really intensify that hunt somehow. So I wired a school in the city with explosives. Now I've got the tape ready to send to the media. If they can't find her within an hour it blows. It might find her. Hell, it might even bring her back. Either way, it'll be fun.

I dress in my regulars.

Heard Eddie's escaped to look for her. That makes me feel a little better. Oh, Eddie's not smarter than me, but that means Bats has more to worry about than just looking for me or Breech. If he finds her though, I'll turn _myself_ in. He's clever, but too clever for his own good.

I want her back _now_.

On an impulse, I snatch up this morning's paper, and a pen, and ram it so hard that the pen is embedded in the wall.

"Where would you find that which is between above and below?" a woman's low voice calls out suddenly.

It's a really old puzzle, so of course I know the answer, "At the end, next to yourself." Pause, "Breech?" I turn, and she's back. She _came back_. I pull out a shiv and stride towards her, "I am gonna, uh... _stab_ you _so_ many times..."

"Ah!" she pulls a handgun and raises a finger. For a moment I think she's going to be dumb enough to point it at me, but no, she points it at her _own_ head, "Three million dollars, is that the best I could do, huh? You insult me, Joker. I kill people for more'n that!"

"Hey, couldn't make you look too good."

"Whatever. 50 million dollars, huh? I'm worth that much to you now? Now that's a way to flatter a girl. One way."

"I, uh... wanted you _back,_" is all I can say to that.

"Well, I'm back."

"You really, uh... helped me _drive_ this city _crazy_," I smirk, and lick my lips slowly, "Guess you really are a Gotham Girl..."

"Damn right," she smiles, "Now, where's my 50 million dollars?"

I stop, looking at her. Then I start laughing so _hard_, "God, you're a real laugh Breech! 50 million! You think you can run away from me and then just come back and rip me off-"

"Okay, I'll put it this way," she glares, "Alive, I'm worth 50 million dollars to you. Dead..." she cocks the gun, "I'm toxic waste."

"You don't have the, uh... _guts,_" I challenge her.

"You got a point," she admits, "A handgun _would_ be too cliché," she pulls out a sawn-off shotgun and holds it under her own chin, "A shotgun, on the other hand... that would really make a _mess_."

"Ooooh..." It's not that I really believe she'll do it, but... I wanted her back. And here she is. Besides, she's mine, I want her. I'll get her back for this soon enough, "Okay, I made a deal, and... I'm a man of my _word_..." I head over to the desk and pull out a big suitcase. 50 million dollars in cash is pretty heavy... I slam the suitcase on the table, "You'll have to, uh... _come in_ if you want it," I gesture her in, and she comes.

She enters slowly, the shotgun still under her chin, "Open it. Show me the money," I do so, and she picks up a wad, counting rapidly, "Payment accepted," she lowers the gun and closes the case.

I lunge at her, to grab her and hold her so _tight_.

"Wait!" she jumps back, holding a hand up, "Don'cha want to see the punchline?"

"What?"

"I'm worth 50 million dollars, right? I just sold myself to you for 50 million dollars. So..." she dodges around me, "I'll buy myself from you. Current market value? 50 million dollars." She pushes the suitcase towards me.

I stop and stare. Then I laugh, and laugh, and _laugh_...

"If you consider me property... I'll own myself," she tells me slowly.

"Offer..." I take the suitcase, still chuckling, "Accepted..." I take the case. Then I dump the money in a garbage bin and throw in a match. That's all money's good for anyway, "You own yourself," I tell her, staring at the flames for a while. I suck on my scars thoughtfully, "If I could just have you, I, uh... I wouldn't _want_ you."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mister Joker," She steps up beside me, touching my arm lightly, "But still... God I've missed you..."

I don't get it. But I turn to look down at her again. She puts her hands on my shoulders, and suddenly I grab her and wrap my arms around her and hold onto her so tight, so _tight_, "You came back," I manage, "You came back _again_..."

It's hilarious.

* * *

><p>Me: So, I know I'm being sluggish. Sorry about that...<p>

"You need somebody..." she tells me, "And I like to be needed."

"I don't, uh... need _looking after_."

"I didn't say that. But every man needs a woman."

I decide to forget those few words, and just hold on tighter. I won't let her run away again. But I put a hand in her hair and smell it. It's kind of greasy, cus she's not been washing for days. But physical stuff never bothered me before, and it doesn't now. Still, her hair... doesn't feel or smell like any human's I've ever been close to. It smells... wild. Like her. I called her a Wild Card once. Now I know she's one. Not like me. But just the same... I guess I know what it's like to have one used against you.

"Don't you _dare_ leave me again," I tell her.

"I can't promise you that," she tells me, "All things end. You say that yourself."

"That's... not how it works for, uh... _me_." I decide to enlighten her. It was fun to watch thedoctors squirm when I told them the truth, "The future, uh... it becomes the _present_ and the _present_ becomes the _past_ and the past-"

"-is dead?" she asks.

"Damn right. So that leaves just the, uh... the _right now_. Live for right now. You, uh... _know_ nothing else really _matters_."

She doesn't disagree. I've never really talked to people who don't deny that they agree. Well, there were the henchmen, but they don't last very long and anyway, most of them don't have the smarts to play fucking hopscotch, let alone have a conversation.

"Where, uh... _were_ you?" I ask.

"Can't tell you that."

"I could, uh... _make_ you tell me." I pull out a shiv.

"Wouldn't you rather work it out for yourself?" she smirks, "I heard Eddie Nygma broke out just to look for me... I bet he's going fucking _crazy_..." she giggles, "Speaking of which, you should probably lift that bounty. Otherwise, now I'm back, somebody will find us both."

"I _have_ had to kill a few, uh... _bounty hunters_ getting too close to the warehouse..." I mutter to myself, "Is that where you were hiding? The Narrows? I had, uh... guys _searching_ everywhere. Even here."

"They can't have been searching _everywhere_, or they would have found me," I chuckle at the truth of her statement, "Besides, it won't work again. The Batman found me."

"That freak?" I push her away and look at her eyes. But she's telling the truth. She always lies so badly.

"If it makes you feel any better, I think he had help," Breech smirks, "He doesn't think the right way. I think _he_ needs a woman too..." she snickers.

That does make me feel better, although it also makes me want to stab whoever helped him a few times. Still... if it was because of them that she's back in my arms... I dismiss the thought. Now that she's back, I can give it some thought later. Then something occurs, "Did he touch you? Hurt you? He's got his stupid little one rule but I know damn well..." I remember the beating he gave me that time in GCPD headquarters, and it was so _funny_ the way he thought it would _work_, but God DAMN it hurt...

"He tried to bully me into... telling him where you were," she admits, "But he couldn't... he... I... you see..." she's looking for the best words to tell the truth. I lose patience.

I charge her up against the wall, slamming her there, "He, uh... turned you _against_ me... didn't he?"

"Never..." she grits her teeth in determination, "He scares me..."

"More than, uh... _me?_" I produce a shiv and point it at her neck.

"Don't make me answer that..." she squeezes her eyes shut tightly.

I don't _understand_. If she's not scared of the Bat she wouldn't be back here with me. And I'm glad she's back. But if she is scared of him, wouldn't she have spilled her guts and told him everything? And why do I not want her to be scared of me? I _hate_ not understanding.

"Joker... please..."

She's scared as hell and god DAMN I want to stab somebody. I settle for ramming the shiv into the wall, next to her head. Then I rip it out, and slide it into her mouth, ready to cut her a new smile.

Yes, I'm scared of the Joker. You'd have to be worse than crazy not to be – you'd have to be an ignorant moron. But how can I possibly explain to a guy like him that the way I'm afraid of him is different to the way the Batman scared me?

Face to face with Batman has you terrified of the loss of freedom. Oh, and pain, the pain isn't exactly something I enjoyed. Facing the Joker, you're scared for your life.

I bite down on my lip because... because I want to be honest but I don't know which is the honest answer – that will let me keep my neck, "I don't know any more..." I gasp out, "As soon as I saw him... all I wanted to do was get away... please don't kill me..."

Slowly, he slides the shiv out of my mouth and looks at it, as if fascinated by it, before looking at me again, "Let's make a, uh... _deal_," he says, speaking slowly, "You... protect me from myself... and _I'll_ protect _you_ from the Batman."

"Deal," I tell him almost before I can think to speak.

Suddenly, he freezes and his face darkens, as if something is occurring to him. And he's stroking – no, wait, he's _patting_ down my body. I shiver, even though I'm sweating. And suddenly he finds something, "DAMMIT! You stupid BITCH!" he yells, and slaps me.

I look at his hand, and he's holding what looks like a tiny tracking device. And suddenly I'm really _angry_. At myself.

"How could I be..." I shove him away hard, "...SO FUCKING STUPID! It's the fucking BAT! Of COURSE he'd pull shit like that! No wonder he let me get away!" I pound my fists against a wall and groan, "Probably swinging on his noble way here now... waited until I stopped running..." I look up at him, "You should go now. I'll stay. He'll only find me here, and since _I_ won't know where you are he won't be able to use me against you again."

He's silent for a moment, "No."

"No?"

"No, you're not staying here. You're coming with me. You're a lot of, uh... _fun_... Now strip. I'll get you some clothes that aren't, uh... _contaminated._"

I look around wildly for a room to undress in, "Um... where?"

"You, uh... _look_ like a cat, _smell_ like a cat, and _act_ like a cat," he replied, and smirks, "What's your, uh, _problem_ with being, uh... _naked_ like a cat?"

He can't see the blush, but I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks.

I step outside the room, wondering if she will strip and it suddenly makes me feel... excited? Not like the way she threw her temper tantrum, but... differently. I grab a purple duster and pants. They're expensive, but they're pretty shabby. I don't wash my clothes often – and by 'not often' I mean that I send a mook out to a laundrette about once a month – and I don't often bother to undress when I sleep.

Well, she can wear them, or go naked. Part of me likes the idea of seeing how she'd react if she had to go naked, like the animal she says she is.

I collect myself – at least as much as usual – and stride back to the corner of the warehouse she undressed in. She's ass-naked, and a little hunched over, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks unbelievably... vulnerable.

Let me tell you a great story – this one time I broke into a woman's house. Woke her up. She's terrified – well, obviously, I am waving a shiv in her face – but then I take a step back, not touching her, and tell her, bluntly, 'Strip'. I don't have to lay a finger on her – although I do need to make a few gestures with the shiv – and when she's done, she's cringing _exactly_ the way Breech is now. Trying to hide everything that makes a woman a woman.

Breech looked good in the skin-tight leather but now... Well, her breasts are pretty small, you get that with slim gals... It's her hips and ass that I find my gaze suddenly fixated on. The fact that she has a tail only makes them more obvious. I have to take a breath, "Damn girl, stop cringing like that! You're acting like every other woman I've raped!" I joke.

Actually I've never raped a woman – well, I don't remember doing so. It's no fun. It's way too predictable.

But she doesn't laugh.

I sigh mentally. I like looking at her body but I don't like looking at _my woman_, smart, funny and strong, looking like some common frightened housewife, which is weird because... well a few seconds ago I was loving the idea. I try to cheer her up, "You look better in black than you do in red," I hesitate, "That's a compliment."

"Are you going to give me something to wear or just stand around looking at my ass?" she snaps.

I didn't realise she'd noticed that part. I throw her the duster and pants, "They won't fit you but they'll cover... girl stuff. And we'll grab you something pretty soon enough. Better than the last one."

She snatches up the clothes so fast you'd think her life depended on it. It's starting to occur to me that I know a lot about people, but I know pretty much squat about _women._


	16. Shall We Dance?

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: Hey, I thought up an origins story for Breech. But I'm not putting it down right yet.<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Sixteen: Shall We Dance?<p>

I'm too late.

I should have followed her more closely, instead of waiting for her to reach her destination, but she'd knocked me down and she's fast-

No, that's no excuse. I'm Batman. I have to be stronger, and faster. Bridget Loranski is not the exception to the rule. As well as her mutation warping her mental state, she's a violent, unrepentant killer, and the longer she spends with that manipulative monster Joker, the more dangerous she'll become. I let her vulnerable situation and her status as a woman get in the way of remembering how dangerous she really is. I thought when she fled him that she'd come easily, but it's gotten more complicated than that.

The warehouse the tracking device leads me to has walls riddled with bullet-holes, from some sort of rapid-fire machine gun. Ballistics are a nightmare with this many bullets, but it looks like somebody stood in the middle of the room to fire. The walls have been attacked multiple times too – and I find several places where spots of blood decorate the floor, probably in instances where he struck her.

What disturbs me most though, makes even Batman nearly sick to his stomach, is the discovery of the torn red clothes in a corner, with the dried semen on them. And what makes it worse, is the note the Joker left on them.

THANKS FOR SENDING MY GIRL HOME, BATS

There's only one explanation I can think of – when Breech ran back to this place because I couldn't stop her, the Joker assaulted and raped her, either for leaving, or when he found the tracking device. I just hope to god I'm wrong.

If I had that cell-phone sonar device thing I could find the Joker right now, and stop him before he starts whatever plan he has in mind. But that's gone, and now he's baiting traps for me with innocent and vulnerable people's blood. I can't rely on technology; it's fallible. I need to rely on myself.

* * *

><p>It's 12 hours later and I gotta admit, when the Joker does something illegal he doesn't go about it creeping and skulking like some of the Arkham Asylum nuts. He does it in daylight, and he does it great.<p>

"This time, you get custom," is what he told me firmly, "Like me. Those clothes you were wearing? They were for boring, regular people. You're not regular. You're something, uh… _special_. You deserve to wear something special."

So to cut a long story short, I got measured up – measured for _me_, for the first time in my life – and Joker told the tailor at knifepoint to do something good with bullet-proof materials. And he gave him a time limit. Always give them a time limit and a really good incentive to do their job. I learned that one from my string of previous employers.

And looking in the mirror, for the first time in this life I feel... sexy.

It's all red and skin-tight again, but this time it covers more of my body. No gloves, or shoes. When you've got claws, the last thing you want to do is cover them up. The duster is long. Most importantly, there's lots and lots of straps and buckles and pockets for weapons. Specifically, guns. I loved it so much Joker didn't even shiv the guy who made it.

I jump as he comes up behind me, putting his hands on my shoulders, "Now you're a _real_ Lady in Red," he whispers in my ear. He sucks on his scars thoughtfully, "No, don't you _dare_ cringe or cower because I think... because I said... No, don't you cringe or cower. You're really _Breech Loader_ again. You're the woman who _dared_ to run away from the most feared man in the city, and then _dared_ to come back and then _dared_ to make him pay you 50 million for it and then _dared_ to buy yourself right back. So help me I'll fucking _shiv_ you if you act ashamed of who you are."

The last time somebody acted this way around me, I was Bridget Loranski. She's been dead almost ten years now, and no man ever looked at me, Breech Loader, like this.

Something tells me – or is it a warning? – that Joker doesn't really know he's doing it either. He's acting on the most base instinct any creature possesses – survival of the species. Commonly known as sex. It's a more base instinct than survival of the self – otherwise this planet wouldn't have animals which expire as soon as they mate, or animals which have no digestive system because they only live long enough to mate and reproduce and don't eat, or animals that spontaneously change gender.

I can't help the smirk that crosses my face, and the overwhelming confidence filling my body. And I'm not even wearing my equip yet!

"Yeah, I like it," I tell him, "We should test its... influence on people's behaviour."

He grins, "I like the way you, uh... _think_, Breech," his expression changes in the reflection, as if he's trapped between emotions, but the expression is so hard to read with the makeup and the scars. And then he adds, quickly, "That's the reason you're still alive. I hear there's a real, uh... _shin-dig_ going down at Gotham Hotel tonight. And I've got an invitation..."

"Huh?"

He flicks a Joker card out of his sleeve and runs his tongue over his lips, "Right _here_."

On our way out, Joker casually slams a wad of bills on the counter – couple of thousand, I'm guessing – with another Joker card on top. "Joker, wait," I call out to him. He pauses, and leans against a wall by the door casually, playing with a shiv. The tailor looks between us, sweating, trying to decide who to fear more – the psychopath or the monster. I'm pretty sure he settles on the psychopath though, "I was here too. I'm a Gotham girl now, and I leave a mark."

I pull out a full deck of Tarot cards, and flick them across the room, "Bear witness," I tell the tailor softly.

A Gotham Girl needs to have a trademark. I'll work it out soon.

* * *

><p>It's time for the party to really begin.<p>

I've rustled up a few mooks for the occasion – trust me, I can always find people who'll see things my way soon enough – and equipped them.

Breech looks good in that custom outfit. Even better with all the weaponry she's gone and strapped to it. Since this is her first real _party_, I've given her a few tips. Well, more like rules. Yeah I know what I say about rules but some things have to be specified...

Rule number one – don't ever upstage me. She'll get her fair share of attention. Not least in her new outfit. It's almost as good as mine.

Rule number two – follow my orders. Speak when she's spoken to, or prompted.

Rule number three – if the Batman shows... by which I mean, _when_ - well, she can do whatever she wants, but don't kill him, even if it results in us being beaten. If anybody's going to kill the Bat, it's going to be _me_.

"So, boys – and the, uh... _lady_," I say, licking my lips slowly, "This is going to be pretty standard fare as hold-ups go. Think of it as a debutante ball. I mean, Breech there could kill the five of you in five seconds-"

"_Three_ seconds," she corrects me.

"But this is her very first hold-up, and a, uh... _very_ special night for her, so let's all be supportive," I continue, "And as of this moment, she officially outranks you. If I'm too, uh... too _busy_ to give orders, you listen to her. You know why we're here. And remember, we're not just petty thugs – we give people a show they'll remember for the rest of their, uh... _lives._"

I promptly kick open the door to the room, and fire the shotgun I'm holding straight up. It's always a good opening move. Everything freezes, and all attention is on me. I speak clearly and loudly from the start.

"You didn't invite me... so, uh... I _CRASHED!"_ I laugh, then turn to the crowd staring in terror, "Me and my, uh... _friends_, heard you were having a party," I continue, "Very nice, I gotta say..." I grab a bottle of red wine off some old man's tray and drink heavily, then scrutinise the label before tossing the bottle aside. It shatters on the floor, "Ah, 1879. Good year, I'm told. You bastards really are rich!" I snatch a cocktail pick off a woman, finish it, and jam the pick in a table, "Good food too," I add.

"Get to the point, _clown_," a particularly stupid man tells me loudly.

"I didn't say? Oh, _where_ are my, uh... _manners,_" I lick my lips slowly, "Well you see, I've been on a little vacation from Arkham for a little over two weeks now – free food, lodgings and drugs, all kindly provided at the taxpayer's expense, might I add..."

He glares.

"And _lovely_ company," I look straight at Breech, who's taken a flute glass of champagne from some rich bitch. I can't see the blush under her fur but I'm good at body language, "But it does get a little dull sometimes. But since I've been out, all I've _done_ is, uh... _inspire_ a young lady to see the light... gut a prostitute... blow up two guys who were trying to steal my car... small stuff like that."

"You call murder and manipulation small stuff?" the man growls.

I punch the man in the forehead. Unfortunately for him, I'm holding my shiv at the same time. I kick the corpse off it. I'm feeling more like my old self than I have for weeks, "I do hate it when somebody interrupts the explanation they asked for," I tell the crowd casually, waving the gun around to keep them still, "Anyway, I, uh... haven't really done _anything_ yet. But the _Batman_ is constantly hounding me like I owe him money or something. In fact just last night he, uh... _ruined_ my gal Breech Loader's old outfit by putting tracking devices on it. So of course I had to get her a new one..."

I pause for a moment, waving the shiv around vaguely while my boys spread out to keep people quiet. Breech steps up to my side. There's like, 150 rich idiots in this room, some of them pretty big, but not _one_ of them dares to risk their life by attacking me. I chuckle at the thought of their cowardice.

"And doesn't she look absolutely _lovely_ in it!" I call out to the crowd. There's a silence. I shoot some guy in the chest for it, "DOESN'T SHE?!" I yell.

There's a hasty series of murmurs and nods of agreement. I nod, reloading the shotgun slowly and casually. Still no attempts.

"And you're probably thinking I killed somebody to get it. But oh no, you don't get custom clothing like _that_ for free. I paid for it. You may remember, uh... that my gal Breech very _kindly_ killed a bunch of lowlife mobster goons for 'good' people like you, to help keep your streets clean. Kinda like Batman, except a little more pro-active, and almost as attractive..."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Breech blush a little again. Something about the way she's acting makes me breathe a little faster. I have to remain calm though. Although even with 150 or so people watching, once again I'm feeling... so excited... It always gives me a kick, being the ringmaster in a show.

"And she just looked so _good_ in it, I had to show her off somewhere fancy," I complete, "I'm a man of my, uh... _word_... and I can assure you that she, and by extension I, would not be here tonight if it weren't for the Batman." I nudge her gently with my elbow. That's the signal that it's her turn.

Breech puts the glass on a table, and steps forward, producing a rapid-fire and emphatically loading it, "Many of you probably recognise me by now," she smiles broadly, and I know this is going to be _good_, partly because many of them probably don't just yet, "My name is Breech Loader – anybody who says otherwise is a filthy liar," she growls, "And dies from the feet up. The media is calling me the Lady in Red, but I _did_ choose the name Breech Loader for a reason," she produces a handgun and loads it one-handed, ramming it on the table to finish the job, "Now a few days ago Joker and I had this little... spat, and whaddaya know, suddenly I'm worth 50 million dollars. And this entire city is finally putting some _value_ on life. Of course it should be obvious from my presence that some helpful citizen turned me over..." she cracks her neck, "The 50 million is claimed, the hunt is off. You fine, upstanding ladies and gentlemen can tell your friends, and their friends... and so on..."

"_You're_ the Joker's Lady in Red?" a woman asks, "You must be insane! That monster-"

Breech shoots the woman five times – starting from the feet up. She collapses to the floor, "I ask people real nice, I say it loud and clear, I have no speech impairments that I'm aware of, and they just don't _listen_," she shakes her head, "Now my friend Joker thinks guns are too quick, but you'd be _amazed_ at what you can do with a gun when you know _exactly_ where people's vitals are."

I look at Breech, who's now crouching down to look at the woman, who is in silent agony. She never ceases to surprise me. And I want to grab her and hold her, so tight, right now, but no, the plan, that's not part of the plan... I'm sure my knuckles are turning white under my gloves with my grip on the shiv...

Breech looks up suddenly, "This woman _could_ live," she tells the crowd, "If I don't plug her in the head. I mean, right now she's just in terrible pain. I missed all her vitals. But I've got one bullet left in this gun. Will anybody in this room step forward and take the bullet for her?" she looks around, "Anybody at all?"

"Please... please just..." the woman whimpers.

"Nobody? Nobody at all?" Breech looks at the crowd and clicks her tongue, "You people... you're all cowards and hypocrites. I bet a shitton of you believe in some God or other, but you still fear death," she fires the sixth bullet, killing the woman. Then she reloads, and holsters her weapons, "Oh, and for the record? I don't kill _good_ people. Not always. The brave man – or woman – would have gotten nothing worse than a quick 9mm round to the thigh. Think about _that_ when you try to sleep tonight."

I give her a light slap to the back of the head, "Don't get ahead of yourself, Breech," I tell her, before speaking to the crowd, "Now you, uh... _clever_ people have probably realised that this is a stick-up, what with the guns," Breech helps out by spreading her duster, showing a small armoury, "Normally we'd just be interested in the basics; cash, jewellery, cellular telephones... But with you people, I think it'll be more like overseas bank accounts, Lamborghinis, and small holiday mansions. Anybody got anything like that on them? No? I'm a reasonable man, I'll give you three minutes. But in the meantime..."

I turn to Breech and offer my hand with my most charming smile, "Dance with me."

* * *

><p>Me: Yes, I know there's a million and one damn good reasons people aren't standing up to the Joker, from the fact that he's insane all the way to the six guns around the room, but this is First-Person Joker. We're not supposed to be talking rationality here. Now, review! Ten billion reviews are demanded!<p> 


	17. Chaotic Reunion

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: I'd just like to say that most of these chapters were written months before I saw "The Dark Knight Returns" and "The Dark Knight Rises". That explains ALL discrepancies. And that's the sad thing about sequels. I'm going to try to make it mesh so that it works out anyway.<p>

This chapter is, I hope, going to be really fun and astonishingly active.

* * *

><p>Chapter Seventeen: Chaotic Reunion<p>

I have to find Batman. Or more accurately, _be_ Batman. As quickly as possible before the Joker or Breech Loader kill somebody. Which could be disturbingly soon.

"What do you want, clown?" a man speaks out loudly, and all attention, even that of the goons, is drawn to him and the Joker, which makes it easier for me to back out of the room, listening intensely.

"I didn't say? Oh, _where_ are my, uh... _manners,_" the Joker licks his lips slowly, "Well you see, I've been on a little vacation from Arkham for a little over two weeks now – it's got, uh... free food, lodgings _and_ drugs, all kindly provided at the taxpayer's expense, might I add... And _lovely_ company... but sometimes you just need to get away from it all..."

He turns to look at Breech, and _only_ Breech. And there's something in his dark eyes, a deep-seated _lust_ that can't be missed. Even as he's looking his breathing deepens slightly, and his fists clench. I don't think he's even aware of what he's doing. I suspected it before, but now I _know_... the Joker _wants_ this woman, even if he doesn't know how or why. And the way she moves in response to his gaze, I now seriously doubt my previous assumption that he raped her.

I dodge out of the room.

* * *

><p>"Strike up the band!" I shout to the musicians, as Breech smirks and takes my hand. The dance floor clears like there's actually something <em>wrong<em> with us. Heh. That gives us plenty of room. I take one of her hands, and put the other – the one holding the shiv - on her hip.

It's not like our first dance, in my old warehouse, where Breech just tensed up mostly, and we swayed a bit, and we didn't even really look at each other.

She's looking up at me with feline, green eyes and I can't help looking back into them. I remember what Breech said, about killing feeling like music and I think... maybe you _can_ feel music, ridiculous as it sounds.

Breech's hips are worth a lot more than her bust, but it doesn't really matter, because they're both pressed against mine. I suck in a breath because... this time I can't stop it. I know exactly what I want right _now..._

And then the door slams open for the second time tonight, and everything becomes... chaos.

Beautiful chaos.

* * *

><p>"When is a party not a party?" I shout to the room of still people. They turn to look at me, "When it's... ABASH!"<p>

Oh yes, it's me, and sometimes I call myself Edward Nygma, but tonight... tonight I'm The Riddler. And I want two things. To best Batman in intelligence... and 50 million dollars. Or merchandise worth an equivalent amount...

I swing my staff around myself and slam the tip into the floor so hard it remains upright. The 'hired help' fire their guns into the ceiling. The crowd parts, and I'm about to laugh at the easiness of it all when I stop. Because now of course they're looking at me but they _were_ looking at someone else.

"Joker?!" I exclaim.

The expression, or as much of it as I can see through the makeup, shows that he's stumped too. And with him, is the unmistakable figure of an anthromorphic cat – Breech Loader. Freak she may be, but you can't deny she looks good in that outfit.

Joker collects himself first, stands up straight – well, _straighter_ - and puts her aside, "Eddie! What an unexpected surprise! I had no idea you were coming! I'd have brought an extra shiv!"

"It's 'Riddler' right now," I collect myself, "And this is a surprise indeed," I smile slowly, "It seems however hard a fellow tries to establish some order in the world, a little chaos always seems to _worm_ its way back in."

Joker rams his knife into a table, and starts to swagger forward. My five men raise their guns, but I wave them down. Just because Joker isn't holding a weapon, doesn't mean he hasn't got something sharp or explosive on him, "Order, chaos," he cracks his neck slowly, "Order is just chaos in denial... and, uh... wearing a _mask_..."

He thinks he's so smart. There's nothing wrong with him a bullet in the head wouldn't fix. I hold up a finger, "And sometimes chaos is just order without a _leash_ and _muzzle_," I smirk, "By the way, I really should say how sorry I am for you. You must have really lost your touch."

"Lost my, uh... _touch?_" he raises an eyebrow quizzically.

I look over his shoulder at Breech, "Well it's just your new goons. You must have fallen on hard times and all, having to combine your bodyguard, pet and floozy all into one cheap package."

"Who are you calling a _floozy?"_ Breech glares at me and pulls out a sawn-off from that long red leather duster, pumping it.

Joker half-turns to her, "Ah-tatatata..." he shakes his head, then turns back to me, "Cheap? Oh no, no, no, Eddie. You know I don't do cheap..." he dusts down his suit, "Why, just a few hours ago I paid 50 million dollars for her. To somebody who _wasn't you._" He leans on a pillar casually.

I suck in a breath. _Never_ lose your temper to the Joker. He _loves_ that, "You know, it really is a riddle, does that make her personal property, or a glorified whore?"

"Heh, you know what I do to, uh... _whores?_" Joker produces a small handgun.

I snap my fingers, and all five guns are trained on him again. He plays with the gun casually as if nothing's changed, "Well, 10 million dollars is 10 million dollars..." I wrench my staff out of the floor and start to walk towards her, "And you _said_ she stole 3 million and you wanted her back alive. But when you got to upping the bounty, well that got me thinking. I mean, even _you_ aren't crazy enough to pay 50 million to get back a petty 3 million thief."

Breech aims the sawn-off at me with one hand, "Get to the point, 'Question Mark Man'," she sneers.

"You know, a little girl your size really shouldn't try holding that thing with one hand," I warn her with a charming smile, "You fire it, and you could break your arm."

"Been there, done that," she lowers the shotgun, but only to gut height, "Back off, Nygma. I fire at this range and height, and you'll _probably_ live... but you'll spend a lot of time wishing you hadn't." I hear Joker chuckle behind me.

I turn to face him instead, and play with my staff in much the same way that he is playing with his gun, only better. He's looking darkly at me now, and makes a quick hand gesture. Now, as well as five guns trained on him, there's five on me too. _Everybody's_ watching.

That's one thing me and Joker have in common. We both have an insatiable taste for the theatrical.

"You know, I can kind of see the attraction," I continue, pretending to scrutinise her, "Besides you both being freaks, that is. Animal attraction, maybe?"

"At least she doesn't have a face like _yours_, Eddie," Joker smirks, "I mean, if I had a face like yours, I'd try to make up for it by having some sort of, uh... _personality_." But while I can't read his face, his body doesn't seem quite so relaxed now, like I've struck a nerve. He's taken off the safety and cocked the handgun, all while apparently playing with it like it's a toy.

"If I had a personality like yours, I'd try to make up for it by having a pretty face," I return smugly.

The silence in the room is suffocating, but Joker abruptly disintegrates into laughter for a few seconds, "Funny, Eddie. Very funny."

_Ah..._ "So let's see what we can do about that." I've always been a quick mover and Joker's faster with a knife than he is a gun. I spin suddenly behind her. She fires the shotgun, but that's _after_ I move, and it just takes down some brainless upper-class twit behind me. I hold up my staff to her throat like a bar. Something tells me that wouldn't normally stop her – except I had a little upgrade installed while I was out. The edge of _this_ staff is razor sharp, and it's at the perfect angle to slit Breech Loader's throat.

And Joker growls like the mad dog he is and aims his gun at my head. His goons are now aiming at my goons who are still aiming at him.

"Ah! No sudden movements, Joker!" I tell him loudly, tapping the staff with a finger, "I know a guy with as much practice as you is fully aware that a shot to any part of the body, especially the brain, can invoke serious muscle spasms," I lean down to speak in Breech's ear, "In my men too. So unless you want to see your, aha, _boss_ there filled with more holes than a good Swiss cheese, I'd suggest you tell him to hold his Arkham Rejects' fire."

"What the _fuck_ makes you think _I_ can control him?" she snarls loudly. I realise instantly that one-handed sawn-off shot _didn't_ break her arm. She knows how to take recoil, and she's had practice at it. That's pretty impressive. If I underestimate this freaky bitch for one moment, I'm dead.

"Well, he hasn't fired _yet_," I tell her softly. Joker's still aiming, and he's shaking with rage, and the effort of _not_ shooting me. Which is telling me a lot since he's not usually the type to hesitate.

Breech hisses at me angrily through sharp teeth, but drops the shotgun she's holding, before she looks back at Joker and shakes her head slightly.

"So it seems you have the, uh... the _edge_ here," Joker doesn't lower his gun one inch, but he gestures to his mooks to lower their guns, "_What_... is the, uh... _point_ of this, Eddie?" he asks.

"You really don't know?" I laugh light-heartedly because now he's the one on the spot, "Oh well... You and I used to be pretty good pals, remember? The social experiments, and the money and the laughs. About a year ago, we pulled that robbery together. Such fun! What happened, Joker, what happened?" I take a breath, "I'll _tell_ you what happened! YOU TRIED TO FUCKING KILL ME! That's what happened!"

"You're still sore about that?" Joker laughs... for some time, "That was almost a whole year ago! It was just a laugh! Now..." his eyes grow darker, "Put down... my gal."

"All in good time," I laugh at him, "Trust me, Joker, I will kill this freak, if only to see the look on your ugly face. But for a price I'll let her go... What was her most recent market value? 50 million dollars alive and undamaged? What's she worth now?"

Joker is silent for a long moment, looking at Breech. It's a long stare. And I can't see her face or read his, "Let me show you." He fires his gun once. Into her chest.

"Ugh!" She spasms and gasps violently a few times, then slumps in my hold, and I'm holding a corpse instead of a hostage. The room fills with several long moments of silence, before I drop her. I know I've killed before, but _that_... that was cold.

"You sick son of a bitch..."

"Well, uh... people _do_ call me a mad dog," he laughs, "And, uh... now it's _your_ turn," he smiles icily, aiming the gun at me.

Just before the Batman crashes through a window, slamming into him and knocking the shot off target.

"_Finally_..." I breathe. Batman got my clue.

* * *

><p>Yeah, I'm still writing. To hell with the latest series being over.<p> 


	18. Ray Of Darkness

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: Well, here's another chapter, the next in the party sequence. With the third movie done with I guess none of this makes sense and I'm late, but that's not stopping me. Just pretend the third movie didn't give Batman and Catwoman happy endings. In fact, pretend you haven't seen it at all. They totally ripped off the year-long arc "No Man's Land" in it. Yeah, I read the mid-age comics.<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Eighteen: Ray of Darkness<p>

I had hoped to get here in time, to keep things from getting worse.

The Joker crashing the party just to show off what he's done to Bridget Loranski was bad enough. But the Riddler too? And their meeting wasn't even _planned_. Between them they've brought ten mooks; the Joker's crowd his usual selection of complete psychopaths, kept in line only by their fear of him; the Riddler's are his usual hired help, selected because they have brains enough to hold a gun.

And over 150 innocent people, terrified for their lives.

Knocking the Joker off guard to save Riddler – whether he deserves it or not - was the easy part. Now there is the realisation that these two men who previously just wanted to kill each other, now also have me to aim their guns at. I fear that Hell has gone to war with itself. And when I saw Joker shoot Breech... it seems the Devil could come out a winner.

I knock the Joker right off his feet with a punch, "You're a sick monster, Joker," I growl, "You killed a good woman and you're going to pay for that-"

He starts to laugh madly, and looks across the floor. And I witness a miracle.

Breech is getting up.

"Joke's on YOU, Bats! That snappy new outfit I got her? A 9mm won't get through THAT!"

Breech kicks over a table, and the food scatters over the floor. The Joker's mooks get behind it with her. Riddler's boys and the Riddler himself are doing the same on the other side of the room. And she produces two semi-automatics and leans around the table, "Eddie, you FUCKER!" she screams, "You are going _down_! Shit, I'm gonna cut your feet off, so's you'll have to kneel in the gutter to find your _head!_"

Joker sneers at me, "You gonna let me up and join the fight, or are you just gonna hit me while this city learns why she calls herself Breech Loader?"

I punch him, and he starts laughing. Two mooks are dead now, one on either side. Breech is rummaging in her pocket. She snatches out a deck of cards and flips them out over the kicked-over table – a brief distraction attempt.

It wouldn't work if Riddler hired intelligent men. There's a saying among these villains. Mooks. Strong, smart, dependable – pick any two. Unfortunately it does, and Breech stands up in the moment of peace, the fire of _vengeance_ in her eyes and a _machine-gun_ in her hands, and opens fire at Riddler's table. His mooks automatically cower behind the table, but it's not doing them a lot of good for protection.

This just gets worse and worse.

"When Hell goes to war with itself, Bats... only the Devil comes out a winner!" Joker laughs.

I punch him into a corner. He's not the problem. These two gangs are firing at each other for now, but it's only a matter of time before they turn on the 150 innocent people, or _officially_ claim them for a hostage situation.

I have to stop this... and it has to stop _now_.

There's so little time...

The Riddler's table goes down first, and it's not easy, with Breech Loader's personal arsenal blowing holes through the table. It's useless as protection... but it might just make for a decent _distraction_.

I pick up the table and throw it at the current major threat – Breech Loader is knocked down from her perch on the table she and the Joker's crew are using, and that will keep _them_ down for a few seconds. I hope that's long enough for me to knock down Riddler's mooks.

Mercifully, it is.

"Riddler," I snatch at the small, slim man, and grab his staff as he swings it at me, tossing it across the room. I don't have time for niceties. Not when I can see Breech already standing up and now holding a break-action shotgun in both hands.

Something collides with me.

It's the Joker, and he's _not_ trying to knife me. He's piling straight into the Riddler, taking him off my hands.

Joker's bigger and stronger than Riddler, but Riddler's faster, and they're both crazy in their own ways. Riddler has managed to grab his staff, beating at Joker with it. The sharp edge is cutting up Joker's suit and I see his blood on it – not that clearly being in pain ever seemed to worry Joker. He's too busy trying to jam a knife in Riddler anyway.

"Cease fire _right now!_" Breech screams from her side, "The next man to fire a shot at either of them _dies!_" The clowns cease fire instantly, knowing that another shot could hit either boss.

Not that this violent two-man brawl makes things any easier. If anything it makes it harder. Having both these men dead would make my job a lot easier. But that would make me no more than the terrified hostages, who are cowering and waiting to find out who kills who. They're trying to decide who to root for, and I can't let them choose to root for either of these men.

The clowns, and Breech Loader, are at this moment too fascinated by the brawl to open fire on me. Joker's fighting like a mad dog with his knife, growling like the animal he is, and Riddler's screaming obscenities at him with every blow he gets in.

I can't give them enough time to lose that fascination. I move in. The clowns go down in seconds. But Breech is already springing away fast, facing me with every jump back. And she's doing it while carrying what I estimate to be about 100lbs of weaponry and ammo around her person. And a loaded break-action held in both hands.

It just gets worse. But then, it always gets worse before it gets better. At least she's headed in the right direction for me – towards the Riddler and Joker. She's probably going to kill Riddler. I manage to get to them first, and crack their skulls together - hard. Riddler passes out, and Joker slumps, dazed.

"You and me, huh Bats?" Joker chuckles, "You know you wanted to let one of us win, so you could beat the winner... just like I would... You're just like me and you _know_ it."

I toss the unconscious Riddler aside, and punch Joker in the face, "We are _nothing_ alike," I growl.

"Who were you rooting for?"

I punch him again, "The padded cell-"

"Excuse me, boys?" Breech calls out. We both turn, "If I could draw your attention back to the... ahem... current hostage situation? No... fidgeting, if you don't mind, Batman. Drop Joker."

Joker grins, "Ain't she a pip?" he asks me.

I'd assumed she'd run away when the fight turned in my favour. Criminals are a cowardly lot. I assumed wrong. It's clear now that who I fought hiding on the roof of Arkham Asylum was just Breech Loader during her free time. This violent, calm and well-armed woman is Breech Loader _at work_.

No wonder she wound up in Arkham. Breech Loader is not just a Career Killer. She took her obsessive dedication to her job – a job involving cold-blooded murder - and turned it into her moral code. It's like fighting two different people.

She's backed up against the window, with a woman in furs and pearls at the business end of her break-action shotgun.

There are over 150 people watching me, and waiting to see what I do next. So whatever I do, I have to do it right. I can't let a hostage get shot. But I can't release the Joker. I keep a tight hold on his shirt, not even putting him on the floor.

I've studied Breech Loader's files now as much as I have any of the other lunatics of Arkham Asylum. And there's _still_ a seven year gap in her life I have no information on. If she really did spend those seven years as a Career Killer, she was very good at it. And worse, I don't even know how Bridget Loranski became Breech Loader. All I know is that she _was_ human... once.

Maybe I can use that.

"Bridget Loranski..." I speak clearly and calmly, so everybody in the room can hear.

"Bridget Loranski is DEAD!" Breech pulls an armour-piercing handgun on me. Now both her hands are busy – with all the wrong things, "She died ten years ago. I should know; I was there. But _I_ am Breech Loader. You call me that name again and I fire straight ahead. You dodge, and somebody behind you gets hit... you stand still, and _you_ get hit. Show some respect for the dead, dammit!"

"I don't think Bridget Loranski is dead, that's all," I tell her. She doesn't fire, only listening intently and looking unblinkingly at me, "And I want you to drop your guns, and give yourself up."

"Why the hell would I do that, when I can just shoot people until you get the point and leave?" she asks.

"Because whatever you tell yourself, Breech, you're still a good person deep inside. And that's where it counts," I tell her. Treating her like she's a human being. That's how the psychopaths got through to her. What will happen if a sane man tries it?

Joker's laughing at the idea. I punch him in the face, and he groans, shaking his head, dazed. Breech is laughing too, more softly, but I have her full attention now, "What in the world makes you think that?" she smirks, "You're Batman. I'm pretty sure you watch the news. You _are_ aware of the things I've been doing since I busted out of Arkham, right?"

"I don't think it, I know it," she looks confused, and I press on, "You were a matter of days from being granted parole when you broke out, Breech."

"All pretty lights and mirrors for the doctors, Batman," she smirks, then frowns a little, "Bridget Loranski is dead. If she could have been brought back, I would have found a way to do it years before I was locked up."

"Breech, listen," I hold up a raised palm, "I know how you acted while you were in Arkham Asylum. I know that apart from conducting yourself with restraint and self-control, you also acted with compassion and an open mind towards the other patients – people who would otherwise have thought of you as an inhuman monster. You always judged them by their actions and words, not their appearances, for which the rest of the world often shunned them. Remember Matt Haegan? Or Waylon Jones? They were feared and loathed by others for their appearance but you connected with them."

"They're freaks, like me," Breech replies shortly, "Of course we'd connect."

"What about the others? Pamela Isely? You and her so often discussed matters of nature together. And men like Jonathan Crane, or even this... man right here," I point at the Joker, who's looking very uncertain right now, "If they were to be declared sane, and leave Arkham Asylum, many in the world would still never forget their heinous crimes. But you knew what they'd done, and you effectively forgave and forgot about their pasts. You gave them second chances. That is not the behaviour of a freak. That's the behaviour of a human being."

"Well, I'm _not_ human," Breech replies, "Even if they'd let me out through the front door, do you really think anybody in the world would be... _blind_ enough to act as if I'm human?"

"I also know you broke out of Arkham because you believed by sacrificing your own legitimate freedom and risking your life you would save the lives of every man and woman in there," I add, "That was bravery. Another human trait."

Breech is cringing now, "That's not true," she grimaces, "This is all... a trap! To make me give up without a fight! To make yourself look heroic again!"

"No trap," I try to reassure her, and press on hard while I have the advantage, "You could be a ray of hope for this whole city, to show them that even people with such terrible disadvantages as those you have suffered can be returned to live a normal life in civilised society."

To my side, the Joker snickers, "Civilised society... ha..."

Still holding both guns, Breech slumps to her knees. The weapons aren't pointed at the woman, who curls up, "You don't know the things I've done... to myself as well as others..." Breech grimaces in rage.

* * *

><p>I stare at Breech, who's curling up, resisting the Bat's manipulation as hard as she can. She's looking angry, and angry people are even easier to use than scared-shitless people.<p>

But I can't even get out my shoe-shiv because Bats is holding me up a couple of inches off the floor.

She can't give in. Once you've seen the light, there's no going back, "You know he'll take you back to Arkham, Breech," I speak up, "That revolving-door Asylum. You go in through the front door, the only real way out is over the fence!"

Batman hits me, hard. I can't help but laugh; you'd think he'd have worked out that sort of thing doesn't bother me by now. Oh sure, it hurts but it's just funny.

"People like us, we shouldn't be in there," I address her, "We should be outside, spreading the, uh... _truth,_ but they're scared of the truth, which is why they lock us away- UGH!"

Bats hits me again, "Stop feeding her your... poison!" he growls.

I laugh wildly, "Bats, you're just _jealous_, cus we're both genuine freaks! I mean, look at her! The world's never gonna accept her, no matter how many certificates of sanity you give her! Me? You say I'm crazy because I don't fit into any of your neat little boxes, but at least I've got my scars! But you... you're worse than either of us! I bet under the mask you're a rich, upstanding, _normal_ citizen of Gotham who could be, uh... _fitting in_ with those bastards back there," I point at the rich pricks huddled in the back of the room, "But _you're_ such a freak that you _choose_ to pull on that mask and cape to risk your life and the lives of those around you just to fight petty little mobsters and small-minded gangs..."

"Trouble with you guys..." Breech makes us look, "Is that you're _both_ right," she holsters the handgun. _Damn..._

"Damn..." Bats looks at Breech, "I know Bridget Loranski is still alive. She's hiding somewhere in you! You can't run from her, Breech!"

"Oh, there's always _somewhere_ to run, Batman," she corrects him, and raises the shotgun... and shoots out the window behind her, and suddenly I feel like I'm gonna choke. And I don't know _why_. I shake my head frantically at her, no, no...

"One shot left. Three of us," Breech stops smirking, "But I can see the _two_ of you. So if one of you is right, and one of you is wrong, and it's up to me to decide which is which, what does that make me?"

There's a long silence.

She gives a sharp bark of laughter and a dramatic flourish, "Perspective..."

Then she spreads her arms and falls backwards.

"BREECH!"

* * *

><p>Me: Where's my hundreds of reviews? Right now!<p> 


	19. Crash World

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: Batman and Commissioner Gordon this time. I wasn't sure about whether it was worth continuing this story, because after all, the trilogy is over. Batman won. Sort of. But hey, I thought to myself, what the hell.<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Eighteen: Crash World<p>

I'm not sure whether the shriek came from me, or the Joker, or both. Curiously, the hot money is on the Joker, because...

Because there's _no time_to scream names.

Images of when Rachel was thrown out of a window by the Joker flash before my eyes.

No time to reason, rationalise, plan or even feel. I have to act. That's the problem with being a hero.

I jump through that window, the cord behind me, and manage to fall faster than Breech – who is falling exactly the way a cat would, more slowly than I am. It's twenty stories down. And I catch up just five feet above the ground.

"Let's do that again!" she screams with laughter, and there are actually tears pouring down her face, as if it was hilarious.

"Let's not," I tell her, dropping to the ground. The police are arriving.

She kicks out the moment she can with claws, "How'd it feel, Batman?!" she shouts.

I don't block. I fight back. She has to go down and I don't feel bad about hitting a woman now – not now I've seen what she can do.

"To act without thinking? You don't have time to choose! There's no time at all!" she shouts as we trade blows. She's still carrying her small armoury around and she's not even reaching for it.

I hit her in the face. Knocking her down has the sole effect of making her get straight back up again, even if she's having trouble breathing. She's not strong, but she is very fast.

"Acting on instinct! Impulse! Reflex! Acting like me!" I grunt in response as she lands a punch – not hard, but fast and precise, "Acting like an animal!"

"How'd it feel, Bats?" she continues, and kicks out, but this time I knock it aside, "That's right, it didn't feel like _anything_, because there wasn't even time to _feel!_"

I'm rapidly tiring of her taunts, "Feel _this!_" I growl, and finally manage to knock her down, and this time I manage, moving at full speed, to slap hinged cuffs on her wrists, and as she bunches her legs up to kick at me, the same type on her ankles. If she gets her way, she'll either kill me or, when she realises she can't kill me, make a run for it.

I haul her to her feet, as Commissioner Gordon comes up to me. She's still trying to fight me, even bound hand and foot, "Riddler and Joker and eight surviving hired goons are on the twentieth floor," I tell him, "As for this woman... have you ever seen the movie 'Gremlins'?"

"A long time ago..." Commissioner Gordon replies, watching me and Breech closely.

"Whatever she says, no matter how much she pleads or begs, no matter how nice or angry she acts, do _not_ take those cuffs off," I warn him, "She's dangerous even with them on."

The Commissioner looks at Breech. She's suddenly become docile. Playing nice, "She, uh... can't walk with the cuffs on her ankles," he mentions.

"Exactly."

I take the grappling hook and head back up the tower, watching as Jim Gordon and his team head into the building, while a handful take Breech into custody. They have to carry Breech into a squad car, thanks to the hinged cuffs on her ankles. It was the only thing I could think of to keep her from running. She might get away even so.

It's exactly as I feared. Riddler and all eight remaining hired goons are still there, probably because most of them are unconscious, but Joker's managed to get away thanks to the distraction of Breech. But at least she's contained. Now I have to find Joker.

* * *

><p>"So has she said or done anything?" I ask, looking at Breech in the observation room.<p>

"Not really," Bullock tells me, "Kept messing with the handcuffs for a while, before she gave up. But she won't get 'em off. If she could, she'd have to get the ones on her feet off before she can do anything anyway. You sure they're both necessary, Commish?"

"Batman said they were," I muse. Breech seems to have quieted down now.

"That freak?" Bullock sneers, "Where'd he get handcuffs like that?"

"I looked at them. They're specially designed to hold prisoners prone to escaping regular cuffs," I reply, "We have a few pairs. What about her being searched?"

"Well, her bein' a... female and all, I had Detective Montanya and another of the gals deal with the search. They couldn't do it so easy because of the cuffs. They took mostly everything they could find off her. What she's been carrying, you could equip a riot squad for a month with."

"Huh. _Mostly_ everything?" I ask.

"There's the claws," Bullock returns, "They ain't fake. They're real. If we declaw that... cat, she could probably claim police brutality. Especially if she keeps acting all nice like that, not using them."

I look in on the feline again. She's sitting very quietly with her head on the table. You could imagine she was asleep, if her eyes were closed, "Arkham Asylum wants one of their most prestigious prisoners back already. But I think she can help us find Joker. We're going to question her."

I wonder just how much we'll learn from her, but years of experience, much of it painful, have told me not to underestimate these lunatics. I'm not going in there alone.

"Shame we didn't catch Joker," he comments, "Or get a chance to put a slug through the freak's head..." I remember soon after he was captured for the first time, Joker killed Bullock's partner, "Do we tell her he's captured?"

"No, I don't think she'd believe it," I tell him, "Besides, how else do we find out where he actually is?"

"Bags Bad Cop," Bullock tells me.

We step into the interrogation room. She doesn't look up.

"Hello, Commissioner Gordon," she tells me, "Sit down, have a seat..." She points at the chair.

"You're here because of the hostage situation you were part of in Gotham Hotel," I tell her, "Arkham Asylum wants you back. They're on their way already."

"It's always nice to be wanted..." she says, with her head lying on the table.

"Something on your mind?" I ask.

"Like where Joker's hiding?" Bullock growls.

"Oh, no," she smiles, "I was just thinking of better times. Trying to regain rationality. I lost it a little bit back there, don't you think?"

_A little bit?_ "Where is the Joker?" I ask.

"Take the cuffs off," she replies.

"On a cold day in hell!" Bullock tells her.

"Are they really necessary?" Breech asks, "And on my feet too? I mean, there must be fifty cops out there, all armed. I'm one little freak... and you've taken all my weapons... well, the conventional ones."

"Those cuffs," I tell her slowly, "Are not coming off. Not while you're in this station. But don't worry; you'll be back in Arkham soon enough. They're already coming to collect you."

"Yes. But telling you where Joker is won't change that. It'll just mean I'll be in the same prison as him. Why should I tell you where he is, when it won't change a goddamn thing?"

"The Joker is a murderer. You know that. You could save lives by helping us find him. The lives of innocent men, women... and children," I try appealing to the maternal qualities that a female might possess.

"Locking up the Joker won't make any difference. If he really wants to kill people, he will," she looks up with an evil smirk, "Just like if I wanted to get out of these cuffs, I would have done so by now."

"Then why do you even stay in them?" Bullock asks.

"It's educational. And I'm a fast learner," she smirks at him, "But it really would improve your chances if you actually took 'em off. I have this terrible allergy to handcuffs, you see. They induce the most unpredictable muscle spasms..."

Without warning, she suddenly punches Bullock in the face with both fists, knocking him onto his back. It doesn't surprise me that Bullock jumps up and punches her across the face in anger, and I have to grab him and hold him back from hitting her again. She's bleeding from the lip.

"Heh... well... that was educational..." she laughs softly, "You see... Detective Bullock, the only way to distinguish the good people from the bad people is to force their animal instinct out of them. What they do on impulse. You two are playing good cop, bad cop. Do you think I wouldn't see that?"

"Fucking FREAK!" Bullock shouts.

"You struck me, Detective. Not because I'm a freak... Arkham's orderlies pulled that bitch all the time... and not because I'm restrained, because clearly I'm not..."

"You'll be restrained when you're back in a straitjacket!" Bullock yells.

"Why did you incite Detective Bullock to hit you?" I ask her sharply.

"Oh, that one's easy," she smirks, "I know you're a good man, Commissioner. But the... ape? Not so sure. Especially when he's playing the bad cop. The question for me isn't 'why did I hit him?'. It's, 'Why did he hit me?'."

"The point of getting your ass beaten off being?" Bullock growls.

"An experiment. To find out if you're a good man," Breech chuckles, "I don't kill good people, you see."

I stop Bullock from making another move, "Is that a threat, Loranski?"

"_Please_, it's 'Breech Loader'. And no, Commissioner Gordon. It's not a threat. In fact, I'd like to think of it as a reassurance," Breech Loader smirks, "So... I'm locked up in a room with two good men... you can always trust a good man to do the right thing..."

"Tell us where Joker is," I tell her sharply. She's trying to drive this questioning away from the point.

"Okay... okay..." she shakes her head, "The Joker... the Joker... it's always about him. I mean, you could connect over 700 unsolved assassinations to me and yet it's all about him...Well, I don't know where he _is_, but the last place I was with him... oh, wait... no, I shouldn't be talking... it could get you killed. I'll tell you where he _is_ when my attorney gets here."

"Your attorney? You have an attorney?" I ask, "This is where you ask for a phone call, isn't it?"

"Oh no, no..." she laughs, "You see, my attorney already knows where I am. In fact, he should be here any moment... Well, I sure hope so..."

"Wait... when you say your attorney... you mean..." I watch the smirk spreading across her face, and suddenly she bursts into laughter, beating her fists against the metal table.

"The Joker will _not_ come to help you!" Bullock roars, grabbing the tiny woman and hauling her up to face height. She's about a foot off the floor, "You are expendable to him!"

"Yes, I'm rather wondering about that myself," she giggles, "I really want to find out, Detective... You see, it's such a laugh... if he comes I don't _need_ to tell you because you'll know where he _is_, and if he doesn't I _won't_ tell you because of Client Confidentiality! Also because my attorney isn't here!"

"God dammit!" Bullock throws her into a corner. It's like watching a child throw a rag-doll, "Freak!"

She's screaming with laughter now, and kicking at the wall with both cuffed feet. Before Bullock can make another stupid move I grab his shoulder, "Come on, Harvey!" I tell him, "If he is coming, he won't waste any time, and if he isn't, it's better than hitting around this... lunatic!"

"What's the matter, boys?!" she kicks harder at the wall, "Why you so scared? You thought he wasn't coming for me, now you think he is! If that's true, this is the safest room in the house!"

"You'll be disappointed, Loranski," I tell her, praying I'm right as I pull Bullock out of the questioning room. She's stopped kicking the wall and is lying on the floor, laughing and sobbing both at once, "All officers, get ready for an attack!" I shout to the station.

It's a matter of seconds later that an Arkham Asylum pick-em-up truck smashes through the front doors of the station.

I run to my office and grab the shotgun under my desk. I can only hope that a matter of seconds is long enough. The Joker's in that truck, and my cops are unloading into the cab. But he's not getting out, or firing back. And Arkham's pick-em-up trucks are as well armoured as SWAT vehicles. They need to be, considering the things they carry.

"Hold your fire!" I order my men, "You're just wasting ammo!"

"Excellent advice, Commissioner," a voice purrs to my right, and I look. Breech is smiling and holding a machine gun. The handcuffs are nowhere to be seen, "And now you're going to let me and my... friend... drive right out of here."

"What in hell makes you think I'll do that?" I ask her.

"Because there are fifty men in this station, and only one of me," she replies, "And that means I've got fifty targets to aim for, and you've got one."

"Where's Detective Bullock?" I ask.

"Oh, he's safe, locked in the safest room in the house," Breech smiles, "I did tell you I could get out of these cuffs any time I wanted. Now, you were lieutenant when we first met. I'd just killed 28 mobsters. Why 28? Because there were only 28 mobsters in the room."

"Damn you..."

"Now if you let me walk out of here, I won't kill anybody," Breech smiles, "Don't make me kill you, Commissioner. I hate killing good men. It turns them into heroes, you know?"

I glare at her, "Hold your fire!" I shout to my men, "Nobody shoot!" She walks backwards quickly, the machine gun swaying from cop to cop. But not aiming at me. She backs up slowly towards the truck and I beg inside that the crazy clown inside will just run her over. It's not happening. The passenger door opens, and the body of the previous driver falls out, his throat cut.

Breech Loader dodges behind the car door, and climbs into the passenger side. The Asylum wagon reverses after a few seconds.

Nobody's dead. The cat kept her word, at least.

But the Joker just got away.

Again.

"Now everybody! Get into cars and follow that truck!" I shout to the stunned force.

* * *

><p>Me: Apparently the Batman franchise will be kicking off again in a year or so. Yeah, whatever.<p> 


	20. Origin

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: This chapter, Breech's origin story. One of those ones where you practically deserve it. It's her origin story. Or maybe she's just crazy, but hey. I guess ever since The Dark Knight Rises this story has been Alt Universe because Batman decided to be sane. But what the hell.<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Twenty: Origins<p>

"They'll be tracking us now," I tell Joker, "If it were me, I'd drop this truck and-" _ka-chak_. I stop and look across. Joker's holding a handgun to my head. Now is a good time to shut up. I wonder if the Joker broke in, just to kill me personally. Wouldn't it be the ultimate kick in the head?

"Did you, uh... _talk?_" he asks calmly.

"There was no point," I reply as calmly as I can, "I'd have just gone back to Arkham Asylum again. And then if they had you... well, if you want me dead, I'm dead. Am I dead?" I check.

"So perhaps you were, uh... _counting_ on me?" Joker chuckles.

"Hell no!" I lie quickly. Because I sort of was, in a weird way. And he came, didn't he? "But... I was kinda hoping you'd show... You know, they do say hope is the last refuge of a scoundrel," I look at him. His purple suit is absolutely covered in blood, and the back of it has deep slashes from Eddie's razor sharp staff hitting him repeatedly.

"And if I... _hadn't?"_

"Well, I guess I'd just have to break out of Arkham instead of breaking out of the GCPD headquarters," I reply politely. It's always a good idea to be polite when there's a maniac holding a gun to your head. So why did I hope this particular maniac would help me?

I have the awful feeling that I know why and I'm going into denial. I can't stand denial. I like to get straight to anger.

"Thanks, anyway," I add, just to find out if I'm going to die right now.

"Humph," Joker doesn't lower the gun, "Good work though, Breech. That bat called you a ray of hope, and you made him prove it... or look like a _hypocrite_. Which he is anyway. And he was proven wrong. Perspective... heh... I'd have said God but hey…"

"Well, you're the driver," I say, still aware of the gun at my head, "Where are we driving?"

"Well, to drop the truck, for a start. After that..." he shrugs.

* * *

><p>It's about an hour later and we're at the hideout. I haven't been shot. We shook the cops, and Joker blew up the SWAT van to finish the job. ... whatever. I don't exactly blend well in a crowd, and he doesn't worry too much if somebody actually connects him to a crime. In fact I think he may prefer it that way.<p>

He's standing at a window now, hunched and looking over the city and apparently thinking.

I took off my long-coat when we got back, but the Joker kept on his duster. Looking at it, I can guess why, the back of it being covered in his own blood. I want to help but he'll never accept real help – he'd just see it as pity. Still, it's easier to talk without a gun pressed to your head.

"You know, you're gonna have to get a new suit now," I comment, "That one's all sliced up from fighting with Eddie." That's good. Notice the suit first.

The Joker shrugs, "Guess you and me and a few, uh... _expendables_ will have to hit a Mob bank, huh Breech?" he laughs, "Nah... I'll figure something out. Never pull the same job twice."

"Still..." I'm on really shaky ground here, "Those cuts are still bleeding a lot. Aren't they painful?"

Joker laughs, "Of course they are, Breech! Don't ask stupid questions."

"Well... They should be patched up," I swallow, "I could do it... if you'll let me." Reassurance. It's his choice. I hover anxiously behind him. Keep the conversation absolutely focussed on the pain and the cuts.

"I'll live, if that's what you're, uh... _worried_ about," Joker turns to face me, and I suddenly realise how close I actually got because he's almost right in my face.

"Well, they _should_ be dealt with," I tell him, "How about we cut a deal, Joker? You let me patch you up... and I'll tell you how I got... _these_ scars," I tap my head a couple of times.

"Huh. How do I know you won't lie to me like you always did with the shrinks?" he sneers, looming imposingly over me. It's times like this that I regret being so small...

"Hey, I'm a lousy liar," I reply, "If even the shrinks could tell when I was spinning my fakes, I know you will. Besides, the truth is much more interesting than the lies ever were," I tilt my head to regard him carefully, "I think you'd like it. It's a story of corruption, greed and chaos," I smile hopefully, "How about it?"

"If it's not the, uh… _truth_, I'll make you eat your own feet," Joker tells me, his dark eyes staring into mine like little black holes. Coming from anybody else this would seem like an empty threat. From him, I somehow feel like he would pull it off.

"Oh, it's the truth... I'm sorry to say," I look right back at him, "Now, could you... start by taking off that duster? And your vest and shirt? I gotta get some things."

I hurry to a cupboard where I stashed some stuff I raided from a pharmacy recently. It's the basics for any injuries you'd get in a street fight, really... painkillers, gauze, stitching thread, cotton swabs... I wash a bowl with boiling water, and then fill it with warm water. When I get back, Joker's amazingly done as I asked, and stripped his upper body. The scars, I don't think about now, but he's still covered with blood, and now the duster and shirt and vest are off, it's almost entirely his own.

"Okay, just lay yourself... face down," I gesture to the blankets in the corner, and he walks over, doing so slowly and silently. I speak again, straddling his back cautiously, "You want painkillers before I start?"

"No," he replies flatly, "I want to hear what you have to say."

"Just checking..." I sigh and dab a cotton swab in the warm water, starting by washing the blood off the Joker's back. If he feels any pain, he's not showing it, "This is the truth of the matter. How Bridget Loranski died, and how Breech Loader was born..."

Joker becomes silent as I work...

* * *

><p>I sigh again and begin, "A long time ago, in a kingdom far, far away – about ten years, specifically, and the United Kingdom, for that matter, there was a perfectly normal human being called Bridget Loranski. She was really very clever, and she studied hard and got into university. But it's not cheap. In fact, she got in pretty deep with the loan sharks. Since she couldn't pay them back their money, they gave her another option – be skinned alive, or kill somebody for them. She chose the latter option. The murder was never traced, since she had no connection to the victim and no prior convictions for anything. Her debts were repaid, and she passed her final exams – O-Levels – with flying colours. She became, in effect, a doctor of biology and genetics at age 18.<p>

"Now brains like that, they're in high demand. She had lots of job opportunities in various science divisions all over the world. Highly paid jobs. But the very _best_ offer of all came from an international crime syndicate based in Eastern Europe... known as the Red Claw. So Bridget Loranski packed her bags and left England forever, and vanished from the world.

"Bridget Loranski knew full well what she was working towards. She headed the project for a full _year_. Red Claw wanted to create a serum that would enhance operatives with many of the abilities of various predatory animals. Gene Splicing. Or for a blunter, more obvious term, Super-Soldiers.

"To perfect it, Red Claw needed the finest brains with minimal issues with morality. It was thought impossible, but thanks to Bridget Loranski it became possible. She was very, very proud of her work. Red Claw's destructive activities outside the labs didn't concern her. Hell, once she even met Red Claw... herself. She knew what she was doing. And she was getting paid a fucking _fortune_ for it.

"But just days before the technique could be properly tested in human trials, there was a sting. A big one. There must have been a leak. Everybody panicked. A lot of people got out, but a lot of people didn't. One of the people who didn't was Bridget Loranski. As head of the project, she was highly sought after for any information she held on anything, or anyone. She ran. What else could she do? She was a doctor, not a soldier. She was chased. But she ran to the labs. With the codes she and a very few others knew, she accessed the completed serums.

"I see now it would have been better to destroy them. But that wasn't what Bridget Loranski did. She panicked. She took the Splice of the greatest predator on this planet, and used it on herself. The genus? Felis. Instantly her strength, speed and agility was increased to compare with that of a feline. She killed those soldiers who thought they had cornered her, and quite a lot more on her way out. But they stopped her. She was arrested, but she had been badly injured in the fights she had been engaged in on her attempt to escape. She was taken to a military hospital. They wanted her to live. But a day or two after her arrival... things changed. Something happened. Something unplanned."

I take in a deep breath. Joker hasn't said a word yet; he might almost be asleep but for that his eyes are open and occasionally blinking. My hands are shaking even as I start stitching up the long cuts on his back, "I expect you know of... pain, Joker. Well. Bridget Loranski's bones... they started to stretch. And break. And heal in new ways. Her muscles and tendons... changed. New bones grew where they didn't belong. Her eyes changed entirely, as did her ears. She grew a tail. That mutation was agonising. She screamed every moment of it. Painkillers, sedatives... nothing stopped the mutation or the pain. And it wasn't fast. Bridget Loranski suffered for six weeks. _Six weeks!"_

I grimace, laying gauze and bandages over Joker's lesser injuries, "_That_ was pain. _That_ was suffering. But that wasn't what killed Bridget Loranski. Oh no. What killed her was the pain of realising that she was fully responsible for that pain; that mutation. She chose money over morality, and she had nobody to blame but herself. And all that money? Hardly touched in all the time she'd earned it, and though it amounted to millions of dollars, it couldn't change those six weeks, nor any moment of the past.

"So Bridget Loranski died. And _somebody_ had to fill the space she left. That somebody was me, Breech Loader. I killed those guarding me to get out of that hospital. I was stronger, faster, more agile than Bridget Loranski had _ever_ been. Those blows that landed hurt, but they were _nothing_ to what I had known.

"I left Europe and moved to America. It wasn't easy. But people will do anything for money. I killed here. I was good at it and I got better. Not just a common sniper, I could take down whole groups in a melee. Mobs hired me through a proxy to send a message to other mobs, and those other mobs used me to send messages right back. And then not just mobs, but more powerful people than that. Killing is my job. Like Bridget Loranski once did, I do my job with professionalism, and without emotion. I'm unbiased towards my employers. And I do it for money. A great deal of money. Not that I ever used much of it.

"And the more people I worked for, the more I came to understand that bad people control the world. That laws and values change. Pain is not enjoyable but it is temporary and will end, by hook or by crook. Why fear what comes to an end? And if you can't fear pain, what can you fear? Death? But death is an inevitability. To fear it is pointless. Everything comes to an end. The past is unchangeable, the future impossible to predict. So I live for right now. Appearances mean nothing to me. Bridget Loranski looked human. But inside she was a monster, just like me. I just had to grow fur and a tail to realise it."

I realise I've finished on Joker, "So, that's the story of how Bridget Loranski saw the darkness... and how I saw the light." I get off his back, "You're the only person alive besides me who knows the full truth. Will you keep my secret, or betray me and tell it to the world? I don't know. It's hardly blackmail material, anyway..."

Joker pushes himself up, sitting up and looking at me. Trying to discern if I'm telling the truth. Well, it is the truth and if he chooses to believe it's a lie... well, at least I got to patch up his back, "If it's a lie, it's, uh... a _damn_ good one..." he mutters, "Not blackmail material though. So why am I the only one you told?"

"Because you're the first person I've ever... really felt comfortable telling it to," I admit, "All I ever wanted to do was forget how I became... this way. I thought then maybe I could... go back to living the lie. It's much easier than knowing the truth."

"And what is the, uh... truth, Breech?" Joker grins at me.

"The truth..." I rub my head, "The truth is that... that... I gotta get out of here..."

Before he can stop me, I run for it, out the door and into the street. If he thinks he's having trouble with his feelings, he's not the only one.

I have to do something wild and crazy right now, or else I'm going to go fucking _insane_...

* * *

><p>Me: I tried to base it on Batman Animated origin stories, which is why it feels kind of… weird. Red Claw was in the Animated series (one of them) and she was pretty cool. Not that the movies will ever use her but hey, what the hell. Review! Come on! Do it!<p> 


	21. Why The Caged Bird Sings

A Piece Of Glass

By Breech Loader

* * *

><p>Me: Teeniest edit...<p>

* * *

><p>Chapter Twenty: Why The Caged Bird Sings<p>

_I know what the caged bird feels, alas! _

_When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; _

_When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, _

_And the river flows like a stream of glass; _

_When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, _

_And the faint perfume from its chalice steals-_

_I know what the caged bird feels!_

_I know why the caged bird beats his wing, _

_Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; _

_For he must fly back to his perch and cling _

_When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; _

_And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars _

_And they pulse again with a keener sting-_

_I know why he beats his wing!_

_I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, _

_When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,_

_When he beats his bars and he would be free; _

_It is not a carol of joy or glee, _

_But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, _

_But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings-_

_I know why the caged bird sings! _

"Strange…" Alfred murmurs.

"Breech Loader's fingerprints were all over the computer. She's all over the cameras. She just smashed her way into the Library, looked up the poem and printed off a copy," I tell him, "She even scattered Tarot cards. This sort of thing is what the Riddler would do, but he's back behind his glass. Somehow I doubt she's working for him after the chaos he and Joker caused last night…"

"It's a very old poem, Master Bruce. Called 'Sympathy'," Alfred tells me.

"I know, Alfred. I know the meaning, and it's obvious this is how Breech must be feeling," I tell him, "The question is, what does it mean?"

"Bridget Loranski is not the Riddler, Master Bruce. Most likely it's an act of impulse, like venting emotions?"

"I know what this is about now, Alfred," I tell him, "Breech Loader is a tool. She's nothing but a distraction. But she's a very dangerous tool and a very good distraction. Joker's become attached to her ability to cause chaos and think rationally at the same time. I can't ignore the things she's prepared to do but she's not the problem. Joker's the one I should have been finding."

"He's had you hunting rabbits instead of dealing with the resting tiger," Alfred summarizes.

* * *

><p>"Hey," I look Joker up and down. His expression is unreadable but he's focused all his attention on me, "Well, at least you didn't freak out like the last time I stepped out of the building without you."<p>

"Where did you, uh… _go?_" he asks calmly.

"I didn't feel good," I tell him, "And just in case you wonder why, it was because I'd just told some totally untrustworthy raving psychopath something nobody else alive knows."

"You think I'm, uh… _crazy_," Joker's eyes narrow in sudden anger.

"And you think I'm your pet," I reply, "I'm out of Arkham Asylum. I've made my mark. Now I need a job."

"Never happy unless you're, uh… _doing_ something, huh Breech?" he asks me, smirking again and licking his lips slowly.

I clench my fists, "Perhaps, Joker, you have filled your ears with the same greasepaint that covers your face. I _need_ a _job_." Even I know I'm a goddamn workaholic, "If you won't give me one, I'll go out that door and find one."

"And what can you, uh… _do?_" Joker asks, as if he doesn't already know.

"Lots of things. Kidnapping, creating hostage situations, killing people. Anybody. Anywhere. No questions asked," I state, "For a price."

"Thought you didn't care about money," Joker chuckles, "Heh… all this time I thought you were honest but you're a hypocrite just like everybody else-"

"At least I don't charge somebody for my services then _burn_ the money," I snap, "Yeah, I heard what you did with all that money. And I liked it. But it's not my style."

"So what is your, uh… _style?_" he smirks.

"Overseas bank accounts," I shrug, "Those mobsters and Legitimate Businessmen… getting money for the sake of it and not even noticing. It's not about the _money_. It's about finding out how much people are willing to pay you for the sake of not getting their own hands dirty."

"So… what do you, uh… _do_ with their money?" I shirk away slightly and he actually chuckles at that when his hand strokes my furry cheek. Why the hell am I more afraid of him when he's gentle than when he's rough?

"I used what I needed to do my job," he strokes my cheek again, and this time I don't pull back, "Heh. The better I got at my job, the more I earned, the less I needed."

"So why charge me at all?" he asks.

"You know, there are people who will save and save for a rainy day… even when it's pouring already? It's a job," I shrug, feeling… odd… as he runs his fingers through my hair, "You gotta charge for a job."

"You're just a jumped up whore, selling yourself to the highest bidder," Joker sneers at me.

* * *

><p>I regret saying it as soon as the words leave my mouth. Because she doesn't deny it; she just slumps a little and looks at her feet, as if she's ashamed.<p>

"You gotta charge for a job," she whispers again, "If you're good at what you do, never do it for free."

I hurt her by saying it. The weird thing is that I give a shit. I want to make her feel better. I walk over to some broken-up floor panels, "No, no, you're not like them," I pull out a briefcase, "Here. This is… ten million dollars cash. It's yours – if you kill the current DA."

She looks up at me, and it's not greed on her face. She's actually… happy again. Which makes me feel good. Which is weirdness again. Then her expression becomes one of apathy. It's like looking at a whole different person, "You got any specifications?" she asks, "Time limits, people caught in the crossfire, quick or slow, witnesses, body found or not?"

"Hmmm…" I think. It sure would make this city shit itself if… "Just leave this at the scene," I pass her a Joker card.

_Can_ she do it?

"I'll be back in less than 12 hours."

* * *

><p>It's disgustingly easy.<p>

I've pulled jobs like this dozens of times before.

I just head to the apartment block with the DA's office, and wait on the roof until it's morning and everybody is coming to work. If Batman thinks he's the only one who can mess around on rooftops, he's wrong.

That's how I get in. I climb down a wire, smash a window with the gun, and get onto the top floor that way. DA's office is on the top floor. It's even labeled. I knock, and a man's voice calls out, "That must be him now. Come in, Mr Wayne."

I push open the door. The DA's even already in his office, with a woman I don't recognize or care about. He stares in surprise, because it's clear I wasn't who he was expecting, as does the woman. All I have to do is aim, and shoot him in the head with the silenced handgun. The woman opens her mouth to scream, and I run forward and punch her so hard she's knocked to the floor. Then I knock her out by kicking her in the back of the head.

I finish the job by tucking the Joker's calling card into the former DA's mouth.

The only tiny hitch is when I step out of the office. A man's coming out of the elevator, and I recognize him from the news as Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy. He stares at me – not that I'm not used to stares, but he looks at me like he's seen a ghost.

I just turn away and walk back to the window I smashed to get in and look down. It's a long way down.

"Breech?!" he shouts. There's a moment while I look back, and he breaks into a run towards me.

"You're pretty brave, for a pampered playboy," I comment impassively. But I don't bother to wait to knock him out or shoot him. I just climb back out the window and back onto the roof. He'll probably alert the cops, so I leave the area.

Job done.

I was so shocked to see Breech Loader that for a moment I forgot I wasn't supposed to have ever talked to her before. I just hope she attributes that to her recent press.

She assassinated DA Vernon Parker with one shot, knocked out his Personal Assistant with two hits, and climbed onto the roof, then… got away. If I'd been Batman then I might have been able to catch her. But I was just Bruce Wayne.

One good thing about being Batman is that Batman can know everything. Bruce Wayne is just a man, but Batman could be anybody or anything. Still, I listen to Commissioner Gordon first, anyway, "Both stories fit perfectly," he tells me grimly, "The Arkham escapee Breech Loader walked into the room and shot Vernon in the head, then knocked out his Personal Assistant. Then she pushed the Joker's calling card into the DA's mouth. Bruce Wayne even saw her coming out of the office and escape via the rooftops. I figure they were both lucky not to be killed too."

"The assassination was carried out with the precision of a Career Killer," I reply, "The most highly paid killers consider killing innocent bystanders without an absolute necessity 'sloppy work'. Breech Loader is obviously very professional. And she doesn't care about being connected to the crime if she left witnesses alive because she's already a wanted killer and legally insane, and the Joker obviously wants people to know it was his idea."

"We know who did it, how she did it, and even who she did it for. We just can't _catch_ her-" Commissioner Gordon groans.

I swing away. I remember the expression on her face as I saw her leave that office – complete apathy. Like she'd done it hundreds of times before.

Maybe she has.

"The job's done. Where's my money?" Joker turns to look at me. I think he must be surprised to see me back so soon, "It was a breeze."

Joker seems to regain his composure, "Any, uh… _witnesses?_" he asks, running his tongue over his lip.

"Just two. Some personal assistant and the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne," I reply, "Your calling card was left as you requested. My fingerprints are all over the place, and my Tarot cards. If it's a problem for you, you should have been more specific."

He smiles, "Not a problem. Not a problem at all."

I take the suitcase of money and push it into a corner, hanging up my coat and disarming. I don't feel threatened – well, no more so than I usually do around Joker. The guy burned a few hundred million dollars for fun. He doesn't seem the type to kill me just for money. Just for fun, maybe, but not just for money, "And now all that's left is to put it in a bank account and forget about it," I smile, "I really feel much better now, Joker. Thanks."


End file.
